


cherry cherry boom boom

by bodhirookes



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Everyone Is Gay, F/M, Fashion & Couture, Friends to Lovers, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Light Angst, M/M, Modeling, Photography, Self Confidence Issues, Slow Burn, and gay chaos ensues, and then talks richie into helping her w lighting, bev talks eddie into modelling for her, beverly marsh is the only one with a brain, but plently of 'platonic' affection to feed you, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:29:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 41,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23164030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bodhirookes/pseuds/bodhirookes
Summary: Richie, Stan, and Bill laugh with each other as they progress through the quesadilla line and then head towards their usual table. The others are already there, eating and chatting, and when Richie spots Eddie, he’s suddenly slammed with the image of him dressed up in business clothes and giving Beverly’s camera a look that could bring grown men to their knees.He keeps his promise to be cool about it all the way up until he takes his seat next to Eddie. Stan and Bill get sucked into the table’s conversation immediately, but Eddie is just hanging out and eating, so he’s free to turn to Richie and ask:“Hey, how was your day?”To which Richie responds with: “I got to see you in a wicked pair of business slacks, so it went pretty well. How was your day?”Eddie opens his mouth, closes it, and then opens it again, so that he can yell: “You told Richie of all people?!” over at Beverly.“Told him what?” Mike asks, confused, and Bev replies with: “It was an accident!”Or, Beverly talks Eddie into being her long-term model for her Visual Thinking and Photography I classes, and Richie suffers
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, side Stenbrough and Benverly
Comments: 97
Kudos: 237





	1. banana republic

**Author's Note:**

> howdy gang!!! i'm a little shocked that i'm ready to post my second reddie fic so soon but here we are lmfao!! basically what happened here is that i was listening to music as u do and "boots" by greyson chance came on, and i got to the lyric that says "hot like i'm nancy" (which was the og title of this fic) and did some research on that lyric and then i was like "hey what if the losers went to college together and eddie helped bev out with her fashion designs and what if he was also a model for her" and here we fucking are. i've always dreamed of being a model photographer so this is me vicariously living through bev and pretending i could photograph beautiful people lol
> 
> consider this a lazy college au in that idk where they're attending, all i know is that they're in college and they met in college and pennywise does not exist. everyone is a sophomore, bev and ben started dating freshman year, bill and stan did the angsty "get together right before summer break starts" bullshit and now here we are. 
> 
> i'll do my best to make updates regular since i'm really into it and reddie rn and this is such a light and fun fic to write, but no promises since i write in long strides like once every two weeks most of the time lmfao
> 
> there's a joke about the daddy kink towards the end of this chapter but it's all in good humor and not featured in the fic outside of this chapter!! just be aware!!
> 
> title is from my fave lady gaga song ever, starstruck!! the fame is a superior album and one of my all-time favorites and has an important role in this fic later on hehe!! not beta read, all mistakes are my own ♡

Richie Tozier’s life ends on a Wednesday afternoon, right after his 11 A.M. Bio class. 

Just like any other tired, pissed off college kid, he’s eagerly awaiting his death, but not expecting it any time soon. Otherwise, he definitely would have picked something better to have as his last meal than a mediocre grilled cheese and lukewarm curly fries. He also would have picked somewhere better to go than the packed dining hall at the south point of campus. 

He would’ve been grateful he’s dying with Beverly at his side if she wasn’t the one sending him off. The main problem is that he doesn’t suspect anything unusual, so he drops down in the seat across from her with a loud, pained groan. Bev’s looking at her phone, but she sends him a sympathetic wince when he sits down and shoves his hands into his unruly curls. 

“Fun lab?” 

Richie’s left eye twitches, and Bev looks at it appraisingly. 

“Yeah, it was a fuckin’ ball. I loved doing all the work while the rest of my lab table talked about partying up on Frat Hill and how excellent our football team is this year.” 

Bev squints. “They’re ranked like… 40th in the state.” 

“I know!” Richie yells, and then angrily shoves a curly fry into his mouth. “A furby would be better at playing football than our football team. Fuck me sideways. I’m never not going to be bitter that I had to take a lab credit when I’m a Film major. The fuck am I ever going to need to know how bacteria from the doorhandle grows in agar for after this class?” 

“Stop talking with your mouth full or you’ll choke. And I’m sorry to hear about your Bio lab woes. At least you’re done with science and math after this semester.” 

“Yeah,” Richie sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This semester that still has  _ eight weeks left in it.”  _

“You only have to see them once a week, dude. I think you can survive eight more sessions.” 

Richie glares at her. “Have you ever heard in great detail what the inside of a frat boy’s bedroom looks like? And what getting dicked down by one feels like? All at the same time?” 

Beverly winces again. 

“I beg you to please listen to every single detail of these events for approximately two and a half hours straight and come back and let me know whether or not eight more sessions feels like eight thousand to you.” 

Beverly takes one hand off of her phone to squeeze Richie’s. “At least you can see me and heal when you’re done.” 

“That’s true. You heal all wounds, Marsh.” 

“I’m aware. Now eat your carbs, you cranky bitch.” 

“Aye aye.” Richie salutes her and then goes back to eating his lunch, already feeling a lot better. 

That is, until Bev hums thoughtfully and tilts her phone this way and that. Her mouth is pursed cutely, and from where he’s sitting, Richie can see that she’s looking through a set of photos, clearly deciding which ones she likes best. Her phone is mostly facing away from him, but Richie thinks that they might be a new assignment she’s working on. 

“Project?” 

“Yeah. I can use some for Photo I, but most of them are for Visual Thinking.” Bev is a Fashion major/Photography minor and likes to utilize her project time by killing two birds with one stone. She can usually get away with using her models for body study in Photography I and then turning around and using them as actual models for Visual Thinking, which is a fancy course name for:  _ “Here’s the fashion concept we’re studying, design outfits that fit the theme.”  _ Richie will tell anyone that listens that Bev is the next Coco Chanel. “I just can’t decide which ones look the best.” 

“Want me to take a look?” Richie asks around another fry. “Fresh eyes and all that jazz.” 

“Fresh eyes that looked like they wanted to be pulled out of your head when you got here?” 

Richie waves a hand. “Eh, semantics. I’d glue myself back together for you any day, sweets.” 

Bev laughs and hands her phone over. “Okay, you can take a look for me.” 

He gets as far as grabbing the phone and simultaneously taking a drink of water when Bev says: “Oh, hey, I forgot to mention that they’re of--” before Richie gets a look at who the model is and promptly begins to choke to death. Bev makes a mad dash for her phone, which, fucking  _ rude,  _ Richie is literally  _ dying _ in front of her, but he’s too concerned with staying conscious to worry about getting snappy. Beverly watches warily as Richie makes a gurgling noise and claps a hand over his mouth, coughing violently into it, and he thinks that if this is his time to go, at least he got a good last image. 

When his water finally goes down the right tube, and Richie can breathe again, he gives her a look that could destroy planets.  _ “Beverly fucking Marsh.” _

Bev just laughs. “Oopsie?” 

His head is still spinning with a combination of shock and gay panic. “You didn’t think that that was pertinent information? Information you should have  _ opened _ with?” 

“I forgot?” 

“You forgot.” Richie rasps, disbelieving. “Bev, I got half a look at the first picture and now it’s going to be seared into my brain for the rest of my life.” 

She rolls her eyes at him, smiling. “Do you want to see the rest of them or not?” 

Against better judgement, he holds his hand out for her phone again. “If I go into cardiac arrest, do not resuscitate me.” 

“No problem.” 

Beverly carefully hands her phone over again, and Richie, mouth void of any liquids, takes it like he’s handling the Holy Grail. He’s both very afraid to look at the photos and incredibly desperate to look at nothing but them ever again. When he remembers that there’s multiple, that there’s more than the one he glanced at, his throat swells up. 

“Theme for Photo I was angles,” Bev supplies, obviously trying not to laugh at Richie’s moony expression. “And the theme for Visual was essentially a copy and paste for Banana Republic.” 

Richie’s hands are shaking ever so slightly when he finally forces himself to look down at the picture again. Against all odds, and like something out of one of his deepest, darkest dreams, the model in the picture on Bev’s phone is none other than Eddie Kaspbrak. Richie doesn’t know if it’s the delicate angle he’s bent at or the business attire he’s decked out in, but the photo is gorgeous, and seeing Eddie in high definition is doing something to Richie’s insides. 

Beverly dressed him up in a very sleek, tasteful, Banana Republic-esque outfit. Burgundy turtleneck sweater, black blazer, tight black slacks, and a pair of burgundy, grey, and black pinstripe socks coming out of a pair of sensible black Oxfords. Richie’s favorite part, besides the sinful cling of Eddie’s slacks around his lean thighs, is the pair of thin, cat-eye glasses perched on his nose. The only time Richie’s ever seen Eddie in a pair of glasses is at the movies and whenever he steals Richie’s to imitate and/or make fun of him. Beverly posed him so that his hands are carefully shoved into his pants pockets, his shoulders are pressed up and back, his head is tilted to show off the delicate line of his throat, and his eyes are fixed somewhere on the ceiling. His mouth is slightly parted to reveal the white line of his front teeth, and his hair is perfectly styled to look neat but messy at the same time. 

He looks absolutely fucking stunning, and Richie’s thumbs move to send himself the picture so quickly that Bev doesn’t even notice. 

“How in the actual fuck,” Richie starts, feeling sucker-punched. “Did you get him to do this?” 

“I asked nicely,” Bev supplies, and when Richie raises his eyebrows, she concedes. “Okay, okay. I promised I would help him with our Lit Analysis class for the semester in exchange for a few hours here and there of modeling for me.” 

“So this isn’t going to be a one-time thing?” 

“Hell no it’s not. Eight weeks, Rich, keep up.” 

Richie makes a deflating balloon noise. Beverly points out: “There’s more pictures than that one, keep scrolling and pick which ones are the best,” and Richie’s noise intensifies. 

“How the fuck do you expect me to pick the best ones for you? They’re all the best ones.” 

“Yeah, I guess I didn’t think that through. I’ll ask Stan when I see him. He’s the only other reliably objective asshole in this group.” 

Even though he’s still recovering from his near-death experience, Richie keeps scrolling. Every picture is better than the last one; Bev is incredibly talented at what she does, and has the glorious pairing gifts of an impeccable taste in fashion and an amazing eye for photography. The way she poses Eddie in each picture and the angle she takes them all from are intricate and perfect in every single way. She’s able to capture the subtle changes in Eddie’s form without the series of photos becoming stagnant or repetitive, and she never poses him in a way that makes him or his outfit look out of place. Eddie or no, these photos are god tier and belong in  _ Vogue _ as far as Richie is concerned.

Richie stops being grossly in love for a moment and takes Bev’s hand in his again. 

“My brain is leaking out of my ears right now, but before it’s completely gone, I just wanted you to know that this is a fantastic photoshoot. Seriously, dude--these pictures are gorgeous, and not just because Eds is in them. You have wicked fucking talent, Bev.” 

Beverly beams at him and raises their joined hands to give the back of his a kiss. “Thanks, Richie. That means a lot to me.” 

She steals some of his fries while he continues to peruse the Banana Republic collection. He doesn’t put up a fuss, since Beverly has just gifted him with the single greatest sight his shitty eyes have ever had the privilege of gazing upon. Richie flips through a handful of photos where Eddie is still looking off into the distance, hands remaining in his pockets, shoulders twisting and hunching and straightening out again, chin jutting up towards the ceiling and falling towards the ground. He looks defiant and soft at the same time, very much like himself while dressed in clothes he would never pick out on his own. 

When he gets to the picture where Eddie is looking directly at the camera, mouth twisted in a smirk and lashes dark around his huge doe eyes, Richie silently lowers Bev’s phone onto the table and puts his face in his hands. 

“I couldn’t help it,” Beverly says, since she knows exactly what she’s done to him. “He’s very photogenic.” 

“He’s  _ beautiful,”  _ Richie whines. When he looks up again, Beverly is giving him her best shit-eating grin. “You already make all of your models look like they’re angels. You made him look like a god. If I didn’t know him personally, I’d think that someone made him on a fucking computer.” 

“I’ll be sure to let him know,” she replies, because she hates Richie deeply. “That you think he’s  _ Ex Machina- _ level gorgeous.” 

Richie flips her off and steals some of her lunch as payback. “Go ahead. If I compliment him on them, he’ll back out faster than you can yell ‘Say cheese!’” 

Beverly gives him a funny look. “You think you telling Eddie he looks good in the photos would make him want to stop?” 

“Uh, yeah? Eddie lives to contradict everything I say.” 

“You’re a moron,” Beverly says, but it’s fond, so Richie doesn’t take it too personally. It’s not like she’s  _ wrong. _ “Do you really like them, though? Eddie aside?” 

Richie reaches out, puts his hands on her shoulders, and stares at her with his eyes as wide as they’ll go. “Beverly Marsh, your photography and fashion skills are unparalleled. I want to make sweet, sweet love to any and all of your models, and their clothes, too, which is not something I thought I would ever be saying out loud, but here we are. You have more talent in your pinkie finger than I do in my entire Ho Ho Ho Green Giant body. Your photos are  _ incredible.  _ I mean it.” 

Beverly beams, entire face lighting up at Richie’s words. She reaches out, grabs Richie by his cheeks, and kisses him loudly on the mouth. It’s more sound than kiss, and when she pulls away with an exaggerated “Muah!” noise, Richie cracks up. 

“Believe me now?” he asks, smiling goofily. 

“You are the light of my life,” Bev replies with great feeling, linking one of their hands together. “Seriously, dude. I love you so much.” 

“Love you too,” Richie says around a bite of his grilled cheese, and all of the stress from Bio completely slips away in the face of being around one of his Losers. He slides her phone back over to her, having reached the end of Eddie’s photos. “You better take this before I run off with it.” 

Beverly winks at him. “I’ll be sure to make you a copy of some of them when I get my portfolio made up.” 

They sit in a comfortable silence while Richie eats more of his lunch and panics about how attracted he is to Eddie, and Beverly continues to pick through her photos, clicking her tongue at some and humming at others. Richie’s only solid advice is: “I think you should make the one of him smirking last, since all of the others are pretty serious. It’ll make everyone explode.” and Beverly nods, making a note in her phone. 

When she seems to have a tentative line-up picked out, she looks back at Richie. “Want to know something?” 

“Hm?” 

“I think he liked it. Obviously, he bitched about it at first and protested like I was asking him to go skydiving with me.” 

Richie can hear it clear as day. “Naturally.” 

“And while I was getting everything set up, he kept saying that he didn’t know how to pose for the camera and that he’d look weird and unnatural. But… I got him into his outfit and he kind of shut up and just let it happen? And the first pictures were stiff and awkward, but then I told him to take a deep breath and think about something that made him feel proud of himself, and he got really into it. I was hoping he’d look confident enough to look like a businessman in the photos, but he looks like a billionaire, Richie. He loved it. He’s  _ good  _ at it.” 

Richie has been on the receiving end of multiple conversations where Eddie talks badly about himself, or looks down on his build and appearance, or says shit about how he’ll never look anything but sickly and frail. Richie has been putting endless amounts of effort into making Eddie see that he’s attractive in all the ways that appearance doesn’t even begin to touch, on top of looking physically stunning in ways that other people dream about looking. Richie knows that anyone would kill to have Eddie’s big, expressive eyes, his naturally curly hair, his soft, smooth skin, his thin, durable build. Where Eddie sees a sickly and frail body, Richie sees lean muscle and compactibility; where Eddie sees pale and dull skin, Richie sees freckles and skin that tans beautifully long after summer has ended. 

The thought of Bev working her magic and helping Eddie to see how brilliant he is in every way, shape, or form makes Richie’s heart burst open. 

“He did those faces all by himself?” Richie asks, awed. 

“Yeah,” Beverly laughs, also looking amazed. “I had to guide him a little bit on how to stand and where to put his hands and all that, but those faces he’s making? That crazy intense stare and that cool fucking smirk? And the way he’s holding himself? Like he could kill you with a single blow? Like he’s a trust fund kid? All Edward Kaspbrak, baby.” 

Richie releases a long, pained breath. “He’s gonna kill  _ me, _ Bev.” 

“Probably,” Beverly agrees, squeezing his hand. “Eight more weeks, buddy. At least eight more outfits.” 

Richie throws his head back and reaches his unoccupied hand up towards the sky. “God, take me now!” 

Bev laughs, and he does too. When he catches his breath, Richie tells her: 

“I hope he gets just as much out of it as you do. I hope it shows him how beautiful he is. He deserves to feel good about himself.” 

Her face goes gooey, just like it always does when Richie is purposely being sweet. “Yeah, he does. Maybe I had some ulterior motives when I asked him to be my model, besides wanting to work with someone I already know and bend to my will on a regular basis.” 

“Operation Make Kaspbrak Realize He’s A Babe is a go?” 

“It’s a go,” Bev agrees, and they shake on it. “You’re going to keep it on the down-low, though, right? That Eddie’s modeling for me?” 

“I’m wounded, Beverly. I’ve never exposed a covert operation in my life!” 

She gives him The Eyes. “The first time that Bill and Stan had sex and Stan told you, the others knew within five minutes of game night.” 

“Perhaps,” Richie drawls, tapping his chin. “A point has been made.” 

“Look, it’s not really a secret that I’m using Eddie for my projects, so you don’t necessarily need to keep it a secret. I’m just saying that if you make a big deal out of it, Eddie will probably beat you up.” 

Richie flaps a hand. “Relax, Bev. I’m not going to freak out about it when I see him. I’ll be totally cool.” 

“Yeah, I really believe that.” 

“I’ll be totally cool!” Richie repeats. 

**_~.~.~_ **

Richie is not totally cool about it. After lunch, he goes to his required Technical Writing class and slogs through an hour and a half of his teacher droning on about writing memos in the workplace. When he’s done, he goes to the dorm room he shares with Eddie and passes out for a while, free to sleep while Eddie is in his Nursing major-level Chemistry class. The class sends him in a perilous breakdown at least three times a week and Richie is not jealous of him whatsoever, is definitely okay with listening to the knuckleheads in his non-science major Bio class talk about fucking on a crumb-infested jock bed just so he doesn’t have to cry every other day. 

His alarm goes off at 5:00, when the others are all just about to get out of class, work, or their own exhausted naps, and he rolls out of bed. Richie half-assedly fixes his wild hair before heading out to the dining hall they always eat dinner at, scrubbing a hand over his face. 

When he arrives, he catches sight of Stan first, who is on his phone and waiting patiently in the line for chicken quesadillas. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” Richie says, just like he always does. He looks down at Stan’s phone where he’s dinking around on Instagram, and sees a picture of someone’s dog. He makes a cooing noise and reaches out to like the picture before Stan does. “Ooooh, what a sweet little man. I miss dogs so much I could cry.” 

“Fuck off, Tozier,” Stan snaps, but there’s no heat behind it. He glances up to give Richie an earful, and then stops, grimacing. “Wow, you look like you just got spat out of a tornado. Did you even brush your hair?” 

“When?” 

“When you woke up?” Stan asks, clearly referring to today, but then continues with: “Any time at all this week. Maybe asking if you brushed your hair today is too much wishful thinking. Do you even still own a brush?” 

Richie pulls on one of Stan’s carefully styled ringlets. “Sorry you have a problem with my natural volume and style, Staniel. We can’t all look like Cupid. I’m going for a roguish look here, more sinful than angelic.” 

Stan blinks. “You look like a rabid hedgehog.” 

“It’s what the ladies are into.” 

“Yeah, because I care  _ so _ much what the ladies are into.” 

Richie catches a flash of auburn followed by two big, blue eyes from Stan’s right, and grins widely. “You should care, babe. Your lady in question is here to sweep you off of your feet.” 

Stan turns and sees Bill next to them, obviously amused and obviously having heard the last part of their conversation. Stan heaves a sigh and drapes his arms over Bill’s shoulders, curling into him.

“Thank fuck you’re here,” Stan groans, and lets out another quiet, more genuine sigh when Bill curls an arm around his waist. “Does Richie not look like a rabid hedgehog?” 

“You l-look a little like you just took a ride inside of a dryer,” Bill agrees, smiling amiably. “But some ladies  _ are _ into that, Stanley. You should be building Richie’s confidence.” 

“Confidence is the last thing he needs more of,” Stan grouches, but smiles to show he’s kidding. “I guess the sleep-deprived rocker look works on a lot of people. Maybe you not brushing your hair will end up doing you some favors.” 

“Maybe it’s Maybelline!” Richie sings, just to hear Stan groan again. 

They bicker and laugh with each other as they progress through the line, and Stan is threatening to tie Richie to a chair and do his hair routine on him when they head over towards their usual corner of the dining hall. The others are already there, eating and chatting, and when Richie spots Eddie, he’s suddenly slammed with the images of him dressed up in business clothes and giving Beverly’s camera a look that could bring grown men to their knees. 

He keeps his promise to be cool about it all the way up until he takes his usual seat next to Eddie. Stan and Bill get sucked into the table’s conversation immediately, but Eddie is just hanging out and eating, so he’s free to turn to Richie and ask: 

“Hey, how was your day?” 

To which Richie responds with: “I got to see you in a wicked pair of business slacks, so it went pretty well. How was your day?” 

Eddie splutters loud enough to halt the conversation; he opens his mouth, closes it, and then opens it again, so that he can yell: “You told Richie of all people?!” over at Beverly. 

“Told him what?” Mike asks, confused, and Bev replies with: “It was an accident!” 

“Accident!” Richie thinks that if Eddie’s voice goes any higher, it’ll break off like a mic screech and never work again. “How do you accidentally show someone something like that?”

Bill makes a thoughtful face. “They let you do boudoir for Visual? That’s c-cool.” 

Richie emits a loud, pained noise, brain suddenly assaulted by new images of Eddie in lingerie and flinging that intense smirk over at Beverly’s camera. Beverly bursts into loud laughter, hand clasped to her chest, and Eddie shrieks. 

“It was  _ not  _ boudoir, you fucking pervert! It was completely innocent! What is wrong with you!” 

“If it wasn’t boudoir, then I don’t know why you’re getting so angry,” Stan says reasonably. “If what’s going on is what I think is going on.” 

“What  _ is _ going on?” Mike asks, raising his voice. “Please explain. I’m very small, and I have no money, so you can imagine the kind of stress I am under.” 

Ben laughs. “My favorite!” 

“Eddie, don’t get your panties in a twist. It’s not a big deal. They look really good.” At Mike’s pointed hand wave, Beverly elaborates with: “I talked Eddie into being my model this semester in exchange for helping him with our Lit Analysis class. Richie saw the first set of pictures earlier at lunch.” 

“How?” Eddie demands. 

Richie can tell he’s just embarrassed and not actually pissed off, so he stretches his arm out across Eddie’s tense shoulders. “Reeeeeeelax, Eddie Spaghetti, it’s no big dealio. You look great in them! You’re a regular ol’ Cara Delevingne!” 

“No I’m not!” Eddie wails, punching his side. 

“We were at lunch together,” Bev repeats. “He saw me looking at my phone and guessed it was a project, so he offered to look over them. I didn’t even think about it until he already saw them.” 

Richie presses the back of his free hand to his forehead and slumps against Eddie. “My, my, you took my breath away, Eds! And my money, since the bank you’re the CEO of is probably top of the line, thanks to the way your ass looks in those pants!” 

“Shut the fuck up! Don’t talk about my ass like that, dickhead!” 

“They do make your ass look great,” Bev confirms, and then points her fork at Stan. “By the way, I need you to look the photos over for me later. You’re the only person at this table who has any objectivity and the ability to have an unbiased opinion. Richie was terrible at helping me pick the best ones out.” 

“Obviously,” Bill laughs, just as Richie tells her: “I admitted to it! Leave me alone!” 

Stan looks rightfully touched by these words. “I’d be honored to look over your project later, Bev. Thank you for admitting I’m the best Loser here, and the only one with a brain in their skull.” 

“Hey now,” Mike starts, and they all laugh--even Eddie, in his flustered state. 

It doesn’t stop him from whining again, though. “Why does Stan need to look at them? Richie already had a turn! I don’t need the whole group to witness me making a fool of myself.” 

“You didn’t make a fool of yourself. And I told you: Richie was useless at picking which ones are the best. He told me  _ all _ of them were the best!” 

There’s a split second where the whole table falls silent, where Richie’s mouth goes dry, Eddie’s cheeks goes pink, and the other five stare over at them in clear delight. He gets his groove back quicker than he thought he’d be able to, though, and saves face by pinching both of Eddie’s warm cheeks and declaring: 

“I couldn’t help it, sugar! You look so fucking cute in all of them, it was impossible to decide!” 

“Get off of me!” Eddie shouts, pushing Richie away from him. “I didn’t look cute, asshole.” 

“You’re right,” Richie cooes, immediately getting back into his space. “You looked so  _ handsome, _ Spaghetti!” 

“I need to get a look at these photos,” Mike announces, wiggling his fingers at Bev. “If they’re turning Richie into even more of an idiot, then they must be good.” 

“They’re incredible.” Richie laments, and Eddie must hear the truth in his words because he stops squirming. “Bev did a great job.” 

Beverly gives Eddie a small, encouraging smile. “Please? I promise you look great.” 

Eddie hesitates. Richie’s certain that he’s going to say no, or that Stan’s the only one allowed to take a look at them. But then Eddie glances up at him, and Richie grins, indicating that he should say yes, and he releases a loud sigh. 

“Fine,” Eddie surrenders, looking nervous. “But if I look terrible, please keep it to yourselves. I need all the help I can get in Lit Analysis and modeling is my only key to success.” 

While Bev gleefully unlocks her phone and pulls up Eddie’s shoot, Richie gives his shoulders a comforting squeeze. Eddie looks up at him again, eyes wide and scared, and Richie’s heart twists. 

“Relax, Eds. You look really good in them.”

“You liked all of them?” Eddie asks, voice small. 

Richie swallows, so that he won’t say  _ They’re the most gorgeous pictures I’ve ever seen in my entire goddamn life  _ out loud. Instead, he says: “Every single one.” 

Eddie picks at his quesadilla while Beverly shows off the photos, trying to make himself both small and menacing at the same time. It makes Richie feel a little sick, knowing that despite the beauty of the photos, Eddie thinks he looks bad in them and is embarrassed to have his friends look at them, to have the fucking  _ Losers _ look at them, as if they’ve ever said something shitty to each other in the past. Richie knows that none of them would ever say anything mean to Eddie about the photos, regardless if Eddie looked good or not, but he still gives them all a pointed look that clearly reads: _ Be careful with your words or I’ll cut your tongue off.  _

Ben is the first one to speak, after Bev has scrolled through a couple of them. “Wow, Eddie, these look amazing!” 

Eddie peeks up from his food. “Yeah?” 

“Absolutely,” Stan nods, smiling softly. “You look great! You should wear business stuff more often. It really suits you.” 

“Suits you, get it!” Richie laughs, and Eddie does too, just a little. 

“You really do look like the CEO of a big bank,” Mike tells him, whistling lowly. “Especially in this one! I’d invest my money in your company without a second thought.” 

He’s referring to one of the photos where Eddie is sitting down in a chair. One ankle is crossed over his opposing knee, so that his body language is both open and smug, and his elbows are precariously perched on the back of his chair. His chin is tilted up in this picture, jaw set, eyebrows furrowed, mouth slightly twisted, and he looks so fucking hot that it makes Richie’s skin prickle. 

“I like this one a lot,” Bill says, flipping back to the first photo Richie looked at. “Y-you can see the whole outfit perfectly here, and your posing looks really natural and relaxed. If I didn’t know you, I’d g-guess you modeled regularly.” 

The clouds finally break over Eddie’s expression, and a pleased, relieved grin takes their place. “Really?” 

Stan, who enjoys fashion almost as much as Bev does, says, “You know I read these kinds of magazines all the time, and I follow tons of fashion Instagrammers. You pose and photograph really naturally. There are professional models who have to work their asses off to look half as natural as you do on camera.” 

“No way,” Eddie replies, flushing again. “Fuck off, Stan.” 

“I mean it!” 

“I agree,” Beverly says. “I’ve tricked a lot of people into modeling for me--” 

Ben interrupts, amused. “Tricked? Babe, all you have to do is ask and people fall at your feet.” 

“--Tricked,” she continues, using her thumb and index finger to squish Ben’s lips together. “And no one has ever gotten into posing and working with the camera as naturally as you did.” 

“That’s because you did all the magic!” Eddie protests. “I just sat there and looked at you. You’re the one who posed me and told me what to do with all of this.” 

At the ‘all of this’ Eddie waves a hand over his body, and Bill snorts mid-bite, clearly trying not to choke. Stan makes a disgusted face, and tells him: “Chew your food, William,” but kisses his cheek when Bill pouts. 

Beverly shakes her head. “It takes two to make a good photo. You had just as much of a hand in it as I did. Just admit it, buddy--you were born to be on film.” 

“I’m pretty sure I was born to die,” Eddie says, unconvinced, and Mike replies with: “All right, Lana Del Rey, I think you’re being a little dramatic here.” 

Richie sees what’s about to happen before anyone else does. Stan shifts from making goo goo eyes at Bill and looks over at Richie, face open and warm; when he catches Richie’s eyes, his face turns appraising, and then downright evil, and Richie braces himself. 

“Hey, Rich?” 

He gulps. “Yeah, Stan the Man?” 

Stan is so focused on ruining his life that the nickname doesn’t even phase him. “Which one is your favorite?” 

“I already said--” 

“Nuh uh,” Stan tsks, reaching for Bev’s phone. She hands it over wordlessly, clearly in on Stan's scheme. “That’s a cop-out answer. Pick your favorite.” 

Richie does actually have a favorite. They’re all incredible and some of the best photography work he’s ever seen, and picking out the best ones as a whole would be impossible for him to do. But he knows his favorite photo of the bunch, and if he were braver, he’d pick it loudly and proudly. Instead, he flicks through the pictures like he hasn’t already chosen his favorite, like he hasn’t already contemplated making it his lockscreen fifteen times since lunch. 

Eventually, when Eddie’s laser-focus stare at Bev’s phone becomes too much to bear, Richie settles on his favorite picture of the lot. 

“This one is probably my favorite,” he announces, and Stan’s conniving grin says it all. He shows the others first, and then flips her phone around to Eddie, so that he can take a look at it for himself. It’s the first picture Richie saw where Eddie was looking right into the camera, the one where his eyes are bright and fierce and perfectly framed by his full, dark lashes, the one where he’s smirking like he knows he’s Richie’s dream come fucking true. 

Eddie moans and covers his face. “God, not that one. That one’s so embarrassing. I look like a tool.” 

“I think it looks great,” Richie says lamely, voice definitely sounding shaky and breathless. “You’re a cocky bastard, Eds, and this perfectly showcases that.” 

“I am not. I was just fucking around when Bev told me to make my face look like that.” 

“Could have fooled me,” Bev says, her own cocky smirk in place. “That picture definitely has ‘your daughter calls me daddy, too’ energy.” 

Mike literally spits out the water he’s drinking. “Holy shit, Beverly, you can’t just say that!” 

Eddie is almost purple from how red his face is, and how hard he’s trying to shut that line of thinking down. “What the fuck! I don’t--I don’t have daddy energy, Bev, what the fuck are you fucking talking about! This is the worst day of my life--” 

While Eddie carries on, Richie slowly but surely lets his mind white out; if he lets himself spiral into thoughts about someone (himself) calling Eddie ‘daddy’ he’s going to get escorted off of campus. He hums loudly and counts to ten, and when Bev beams innocently at him, Richie silently draws his thumb across his throat in the universal sign for  _ You’re fucking dead to me. _

When Eddie’s swearing gets to new and creative levels, Bev finally holds her hands up. “Okay, okay, I take it back. I was just kidding. Eddie, please take a deep breath before your head blows off.” 

“In that outfit and with that face, that’s not the only head that will be blown off,” Stan says calmly, carefully cutting up a triage of his quesadilla. 

Eddie slams his fists onto the table. “That’s it! No one else is allowed to talk about my dick or someone sucking it! This is supposed to be a conversation about art, you godless heathens.” 

“My bad.” Bev raises her hands again, and then lets them drop into her lap. “Okay, to get back on track--Stan, you’ll help me later?” 

“Affirmative.” 

“Sexy. Everyone else--we can agree that Eddie is a great model and should continue to pose for me, yes?” She receives a round of “Hell yeah!”s from them all, and smiles pointedly at the boy in question. “See? Nothing to worry about, Eddie. You’re a hit.” 

Now that they’re off the topic of his dick, Eddie is back to looking pleased and, daresay,  _ radiant _ from all of the praise. 

“Thanks. I actually did feel pretty good during the shoot. And the pictures look really good, Bev.” 

“That’s right. We’re the fucking dream team. Everyone else in my class is going to be begging me to release your name and location so they can snatch you up for shoots, too.” 

“You’ve got nothing to worry about. There’s no one else I trust but you.” 

Bev’s face goes soft. “Aw, Eddie. I love you too. This means you’re going to keep modeling for me, right?” 

Eddie releases another deep, weathered sigh, but nods, no longer fighting a smile. “Yeah, I’ll keep modeling for you.” 

While Bev cheers, and the others give him their own versions of: “We can’t wait to see what she puts you in!” Richie gives his shoulders another jostle. Eddie looks up at him, and then jabs a finger into his chest. 

“Not a  _ word _ about my dick, Trashmouth.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Richie promises, like the fucking liar he is. “I just wanted to say that you do look really nice in those photos. Bev’s classes are both going to be  _ so _ jealous when they see you.”

Eddie scoffs, but Richie sees the way he preens. “Shut up, Richie. No they won’t.” 

Richie is nothing if not an absolute moron, so he continues to dig himself a deeper hole. “They really will, Eds. They’re going to go apeshit when they see how great you look in those photos. Her profs will fail the rest of the class on principle, since no one else could ever measure up to your modeling.” 

Eddie digs an elbow into his ribs, but he’s laughing, so Richie doesn’t try to backpedal. “Would you stop calling me that? And also, stop being so obnoxious. I’m sure Bev will get a good grade, but I’m not going to bring the house down or anything.” 

“Just you wait! Every shoot is going to look better than the last. You’ll have a whole entourage soon, begging you to work with them. You and Bev will be in  _ Vogue _ soon enough and the rest of us will all just be a couple of distant memories.” 

“Knock it off,” Eddie says, but it’s softer, less barbed. “I could never leave you behind.” 

“Am I your muse?” Richie simpers, doing his best not to just fucking plant one on Eddie right then and there. 

“You’re more like a barnacle,” Eddie disagrees, but the way he rests his head on Richie’s shoulder tells a different story. “You’re wrapped around me so tightly that it’s just easier to let you hitch a ride.” 

_ Correct, _ Richie’s gay brain screams. Out loud, he responds with: “Eds, if this is your offer to be my sugar daddy, the answer is yes! I would love to.”

“No! This is homophobia, is what it is!” 

Richie laughs deeply and wraps his other arm around Eddie, until he really is acting like a barnacle. Eddie lets it happen, grumbling at a minimum, and Richie thinks to himself, not for first nor the last time, that he is well and truly fucked. He’s got a collection of high definition, businessman Eddie photos on his phone, he’s got a semester's worth of new photos coming his way, and Eddie’s natural posing on camera can only improve from here. Richie notes, heart sinking and blood pressure rising, that he has really gotten himself into quite a jam. 

“What’s Eddie’s next look going to be?” Mike eventually asks. 

Richie looks at Bev desperately, glad that Eddie can’t see his face from where he’s been shoved into Richie’s armpit. “Yeah, what should I prepare myself for next?” 

Beverly smiles serenely, which is her way of saying  _ Go fuck yourselves, twerps. _ “A lady never tells.” 

“It’s boudoir,” Bill stage-whispers, and dodges the wadded napkin Eddie throws at him. 

“I hate all of you!” he hisses, and Richie is inclined to agree, wishing for a swift, merciful death to be bestowed upon his unfortunate soul. 

Beverly’s smile turns foxy. “Richie would love that.” 

The others lose their shit; Eddie makes a confused noise, and Richie tilts his head back to look at the ceiling, begging for it to cave in on his head. 

“What I would really love is the sweet release of spontaneous human combustion. God, it’s your time to shine, buddy.” 


	2. cameron frye's day off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> richie suffers and bill is feral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some more lazy world building: richie and eddie live together in a single room dorm, but they have their own bathroom. mike/bill and ben/stan both live in the same building in these fancy apartment style rooms where they have their own bedrooms and a bathroom and a kitchen and all that jazz. bev got lucky and lives in a single dorm above the art building but she spends almost all of her time w the boys bc she hates being isolated. 
> 
> i just wanted to hop in and say that i'm irrationally worried about bill seeming ooc but i'm headcanoning that in college his stutter gets better bc he's growing up and yadda yadda 
> 
> also i'm very sorry about the copious star trek aos and 80s movie refs, i'm a fuckin nerd and i can't help it :") here's a run-down of the star trek stuff in case you want to know beforehand: star trek: into darkness is part of the alternate/reboot movie series, where jj abrams basically said 'let's take the og series characters and make them into movie versions of themselves' and it's aces. the uss enterprise is the ship the crew uses, but bill and eddie reference the iss enterprise in here as well, which is the ship the crew uses in the alternate universe in star trek: the series, aka the mirror!verse, where the crew are basically mirrored or evil/morally grey versions of themselves. 
> 
> hope that's not too much!! and i hope yall enjoy this chapter!! once again not beta'd, we die like men.

The Banana Republic photos haunt Richie’s dreams. And he wishes he were fucking kidding. 

It’s probably (most certainly) his own fault; he’s the one who sent them to his phone from Bev’s, and the one who looks at them every single day, multiple times a day. He’s the one who thinks about Eddie right when he wakes up in the morning, and thinks about him all the way until he falls asleep at night, and the photos definitely _do not help._ Richie’s impulsivity has yet to fail him, though, even when he fails because of it. 

A few mornings after he acquires the photos, he wakes up when his alarm goes off with a very, _very_ vivid dream chasing after him. He doesn’t remember the beginning of the dream too well, but he certainly remembers the end of it: Eddie backing Richie up into an office desk, and then down onto his knees in front of it, still completely dressed in his Banana Republic outfit except for his unbuckled belt and his tight black slacks and briefs pulled halfway down his thighs-- 

Richie takes a long shower that morning. He’s glad that Eddie’s already at his Calculus class, because Richie uses more water than any human should be allowed to and jerks off twice before he can get on with his day. 

After he’s done, panting and ashamed, he scuttles out of their room and over to the hall where he and Bill share a 10 A.M. creative writing class. He keeps his head down when he slides into his seat, feeling all squirmy and hot and like a fucking freak. 

Bill picks up on it right away. “What did you do now?” 

Richie glances at him and then away again, skin going tight. “Uh, nothing? It’s early morning, brother--I can barely remember my own name right now, let alone wreak some havoc.” 

“That is incorrect.” Bill argues. 

He stares and stares, slowly leaning closer, until Richie has no choice but to look at him again. 

“I know I’m gorgeous, Denbrough, but you better save the admiration for Uris or we’re both going to end up buried under the hockey rink.” 

Bill doesn’t say anything; he stares at Richie some more, and then his mouth pulls up into a smirk. It reminds him of his favorite Banana Republic photo, of Eddie’s smirk and the heat in his eyes, and he feels himself blush against his will. 

“You’re such a hornball,” Bill gasps, laughing. “I can’t b-believe you--” 

“Shut the fuck up!” Richie slaps him on the arm. “I didn’t mean--I can’t help it, okay? It’s not something I enjoy. I always feel like a fucking weirdo after it happens.” 

Bill’s grin only widens. “Rich, calm down. I’m n-not trying to make you feel bad.” 

“I’m violating his trust!” Richie insists; he thinks about the dream, and about the way Eddie looked down at him on the floor, and his gut flips. “It’s not funny.” 

“Delete the pictures, then,” Bill suggests, because he’s smart and rational sometimes. “But I bet you my whole net worth that Eddie w-wouldn’t be upset if he found out.” 

“He would go off like a nuke! And that doesn’t count for shit, Bill, your ‘net worth’ is a cracked iPhone 8 and an ancient VCR copy of _Stand By Me.”_

Bill insists: “I’m a millionaire!” but their professor walks in before Richie has to think of a response, or possibly dropkick him to the shadow realm. He does have to put up with Bill sending him amused looks throughout the whole class, though, and during their twenty minutes of brainstorming for a prompt, Richie creates a very detailed story about the one time a kid named Dilly Benbrough messed with a kid named Tichie Rozier and ended up locked inside of a game of _Jumanji._

Richie ends up having to read his story out loud, and Bill isn’t even phased by the threat of it. Everyone in their class laughs and Bill seems to be positively delighted by the fact that he’s made Richie’s metaphorical hackles rise so much. 

He must look as cranky as he feels, because when the two of them meet up with Mike and Ben for lunch, Mike takes one look at Richie and says: 

“You didn’t just wake up on the wrong side of the bed today--you were rocket-launched out of it.” 

“Blame Bill.” 

Bill laughs. “Blame Eddie and his Banana Republic photoshoot.” 

“Ohhhhh,” Ben whispers, giving Richie a different, appraising look. “I get it now.” 

Mike turns to take off for the nacho line. “Yeah, I’m not touching that with a ten foot pole. You’re on your own, Bill.” 

“If we could _all_ agree to leave it alone and move on, that would be spectacular.” 

“Yeah, payback’s a bitch, isn’t it?” Bill says sweetly, and Richie knows he’s valid because he can’t even think of a specific time in the past he’s referring to, but he knows that there’s more than enough to warrant Bill getting revenge on Richie. 

So, Richie continues to suffer. And he does not delete the pictures. 

It gets worse as the week goes on. Richie continues to obsess over them, looking at them in between classes and when he’s distracting himself from homework and even when they’re all hanging out together and the others are occupied with something else. He’s so focused on the current photos and the ease with which Eddie posed for them that he kinda sorta forgets there will be more. He forgets that little detail all the way up until Eddie and Beverly are absent from their usual nightly hang-out to take more photos. 

Richie is having a great evening, all things considered. He had a very nutritious dinner of buffalo chicken mac n’ cheese and mozzarella sticks, he already has 75% of his homework done, and the five of them are watching _Star Trek: Into Darkness_ upon Richie’s request. They’re in Bill and Mike’s dorm room and sardined together on Mike’s bed, Bill and Stan against his headboard and Mike, Ben, and Richie against the wall, legs all overlapping. Even though Eddie and Bev are missing for the time being, Richie is feeling pretty optimistic about his night going swimmingly, is feeling less bogged down by his damning attraction to his best friend, until Stan breaks the comfortable silence they’re all sitting in with: 

“What do you think she put him in this time?” 

They’re all mostly watching the movie; it’s at the scene where Uhura and Spock are squabbling in the shuttle on the way to Kronos. It’s a pretty ambiguous question, and Mike must think it’s about the movie, because he replies with: “Time-out?” 

“Not Uhura. Bev.” 

“Bev would probably also put him in time-out.” 

“I’m not talking about Spock, Mikey. I’m talking about Bev and Eddie.” 

Mike makes a face at him. “Wow, you are one hell of a conversation maker. You must take communication tips from Spock! You haven’t mentioned Bev or Eddie in, like, an hour.” 

“Fine, fine, I’m sorry. Let me start over--what do you think Bev put Eddie in this time?” 

“For their new photoshoot?” Ben clarifies. “That’s a good question. Even I don’t know.” 

Bill blindly shovels a handful of popcorn into his mouth, eyes not moving away from the TV. “She lives for the element of surprise. What were you expecting?” 

“She tells me everything else.” 

“Like what?” Richie fishes; he immediately regrets it when Ben grins evilly (as evilly as Ben can manage, which is decidedly not very evil at all) at him. “Never mind, Haystack, I don’t want to know.” 

“You walked into that one,” Stan says to him. “You tell Bev everything and she tells Ben everything. To quote my very loving and intelligent boyfriend: what were you expecting?”

“Too much apparently. Also, you’re disgusting.” 

Bill throws a piece of popcorn at Richie, his only way of attacking from the other end of the bed. And then he wiggles around enough to get his head settled on Stan’s shoulder, and Stan swoons as subtly as he can. Richie is simultaneously endeared by their display of affection and blisteringly jealous. 

They sit in another comfortable silence and watch as Uhura, Spock, and Jim get into a shoot-out with the Klingons before Khan finally surrenders. It lasts until they get back onto the Enterprise and Uhura gives Spock a small, satisfied kiss, and then Bill comments: 

“I still think she’s going to put him in boudoir.” 

“Spock?” Richie asks, because he’s a little shit, and because his brain immediately goes into 9-1-1 Emergency mode thinking about Eddie in lingerie. “He’d look great.” 

Stan points his toes until they’re digging into Richie’s calf. “Nice try, Scotty.” 

“Hey, if that’s supposed to be an insult, you’re talking to the wrong guy. Montgomery Scott is a gay icon.” 

“I guess Sulu is just along for the ride, then,” Mike says pointedly. 

Ben nods. “He is the pilot of a spaceship.” 

“I hate all of you,” Stan complains, sounding and looking old beyond his years.

Bill continues like no one else spoke. “Bev would make it look great. Eddie’s got the perfect eyes for it. And his freckles would look a-adorable with some white lacy pieces--” 

Richie contemplates launching himself off of the bed, and then out of the window next to Mike’s TV. They live on the 2nd floor, so it would be like taking a nice refreshing breath before careening into the afterlife. He can’t easily pry himself out from under Ben’s legs, which are almost as long as his and full of twice the amount of muscle, so he stays put. He does, however, carefully fold his hands and place them over his lap. He also hopes that Bill will choke on his popcorn and similarly careen into the afterlife. 

“Bill!” Stan slaps him on the chest, but he’s laughing. 

Bill gives him a perfectly innocent face. “I don’t mean it in a gross way! You’re all v-very hot--everyone would look great in boudoir. But he has the opportunity to have Bev _photograph_ him in the b-boudoir, see the difference?” 

“Unfortunately, yes.” Richie yells more than says. “Can we please stop talking about this?” 

When he braves a glance at Bill, Bill still looks like the picture of innocence. But Richie is an observant person by nature, and he’s obsessed with his friends, so he’s very familiar with all of their tells. Bill’s eyes are wide and pretty, and his smile is serene, but the way his lips are curled at the corners reveals everything that Richie needs to know. 

“I don’t know why you’re so worked up over this.” Bill says, eyes wicked under all of the grace. “I’m just stating the facts, Rich.” 

Richie swallows, mind still on Eddie’s beautiful, freckled skin in white lace and his big, big eyes blinking up at Bev’s camera. At this point in his life, he’s gotten hard in front of his friends a regrettable amount of times; the regrettable amount being even once, let alone the actual amount of times it’s happened. Bill Denbrough is an evil, evil man. 

“Bill Denbrough, you’re an evil, evil man.” 

Bill just blinks at him. Then his mouth moves, and Richie realizes he’s blowing him an undercover kiss across the bed. Richie really debates asking Ben to wrap his big, big arms around his neck and not let go until Richie is nothing but dust. 

Stan makes an amused noise at their antics. “I think it’ll be something worse for your mental and emotional health.” 

“Than boudoir?” Richie asks, not even trying to deny it anymore. 

The thing about Stan is that he is _also_ incredibly observant, and he knows Richie’s tells more than Richie does. Richie’s not surprised that Stan knows what gets to him more than lingerie, but he doesn’t have to be happy about it. 

“Oh yeah. She could dress him up like a prep. Let Eddie fulfill his true honor roll potential.” 

“Like you?” Richie asks, because Stan is dressed like an honor roll student at all times, like he’d die if he ever got caught in sweatpants. “You guys could be matching sweater vest BFFs. A real Neal Schweiber and Bill Haverchuck duo.” 

“Exactly. She could Richard Gansey III him to the nines. Cute button-up shirt, sweater vest, khakis, argyle socks, boat shoes, more fake glasses.” Stan gives Richie a deep, piercing look and then whispers, as a finale: _“Pocket protector.”_

Richie bites back a whine. Eddie in almost no clothing is an image for the gods, but Eddie all wrapped up in a sweater vest and some khakis? Like a gift for Richie to unwrap? It’s holier than lingerie could ever be. 

_“Don’t.”_

Stan bursts into giggles and smushes his face into the crown of Bill’s head. Ben nudges Richie with a knee to show that it’s all in good fun. For them, anyways. 

“I, personally, don’t think she’ll put Eddie in anything like that,” Ben assures him, and Richie thinks that maybe he doesn’t have to disown all of his friends immediately, that Ben can hang around and be Richie’s sole light in the hellscape of his very gay life. But then Ben adds a teasing lilt into his voice and says: “Bev’s all about going big or going home when it comes to fashion. Maybe she’ll put Eddie in something he’d never even think to wear, or would rather die than be caught in. Like _your_ clothes, Richie. Maybe she forced him into your favorite Hawaiian shirt and that jacket you’ve apparently had since the ninth grade.” 

This image, over the others thus far pitched, projects the brightest image in Richie’s mind. It doesn’t help that Eddie sometimes snatches Richie’s hoodies while they’re out and about, or sometimes steals his thick winter socks when he gets cold in their dorm. Richie already knows what Eddie looks like wearing his clothes, something that he both thanks and curses God for every day of his life. Imaging Eddie dressed in Richie’s _favorite_ pieces of clothing, with his pretty eyes trained on Bev’s camera, and all of it captured in high fucking definition, is too much. Richie doesn’t say anything for a long, long time, and he thinks it might be because he’s passing away. 

“I might be passing away,” Richie announces, pressing a hand to his eyes. “See you all in Hell someday.” 

Mike laughs. “While you’re there, you might want to consider the possibility that Bev stuck Eddie in leather pants and a mesh shirt tonight. Maybe she gave him some fake nipple piercings, too. Just in case it's opposite day for all the models in Visual Thinking.” 

Richie blacks out for a solid ten seconds. And then he calmly and silently slithers out of Mike’s bed, past all of their legs and Ben grabbing hands trying to keep him in place. Ben’s laughing too hard for his hold to actually take, though, and Richie easily slides out of it and onto the floor in a heap. The noise of his body slamming into the carpet really does make Bill choke on his popcorn, and while Stan is trying to keep him alive, Richie crawls out of the room like he’s in the trenches of war. He ends up at Mike and Bill’s “kitchen table”, a dollhouse-sized plastic square just big enough to fit two plates on it, and in one of the “kitchen chairs”, the tiny, uncomfortable kind that he used to sit in in elementary school. Richie situates himself in the chair that puts his back to the front door, so that he can see _Star Trek_ but he cannot see Ben fucking Hanscom, and then he plants his elbows on the table and puts his head in his hands. 

This is how Bev finds him about twenty minutes later. The other four spend ten of the twenty loudly talking about what their imagined Eddie outfits would look like, and Richie just lowly and steadily cusses them out as they carry on. Eventually, they give it up, and only periodically burst into giggles after someone brings up Eddie in Richie’s jacket or leather pants again. 

Richie hardly notices the door opening until he hears a sharp intake of breath behind him, and then hears Bev’s soft, humored voice ask: 

“Are you okay?” 

“Never been better, Marsh.” 

“I can tell by the lack of emotion in your voice.” 

He hears her round the table, and spreads his fingers so that he can stare up at her. She’s trying not to grin, clearly having decided that Richie’s state is not bad enough to raise concern. 

Bev pushes her pointer finger into Richie’s forehead, making his head rock back. “What crawled up your ass and died?” 

“Why don’t you ask your boyfriend?” 

_“Ben?_ I don’t believe it. Babe!” 

She’s gone in a flash, dashing into Mike’s room. Moments later, Ben lets out a loud: _“Oof!”_ noise, and then: “Hi, Beverly. Thanks for crushing my solar plexus. I really appreciate it.” 

“We can fix it with some duct tape.” Bev dismisses. “Richie said you crawled up his ass and died! What did you do?” 

That sets the other four off again, and Richie moves his head so that it’s pressed into the table. He also starts to lift it up a little and let it thunk down, hoping that he can get enough momentum going to knock himself out. 

“I didn’t do anything, really!” Ben protests, but the glee in his voice gives him away. “All I did was suggest what type of clothes you might style Eddie in tonight, since none of us knew. It was just a harmless suggestion.” 

Richie lifts his face up long enough to screech: “Bullfuckingshit, Haystack! You know what else is harmless? Trying heroin for the first time!” and then he slams it back down, glasses creaking dangerously. 

“Ooooh,” Bev says, finally understanding. “So you broke him, huh?” 

“Like a number two pencil,” Stan agrees. “Bill really wanted it to be boudoir. I thought you’d do something honor roll-esque. Dress him up like Mr. Rogers.” 

“I suggested leather pants and a mesh top,” Mike adds. “Apparently, that did him in.”

“But mine was the worst.” Ben tells her, and Richie doesn’t have to be looking to see his wide, cute, shit-eating grin. “I suggested you’d take Eddie completely outside of his comfort zone and stick him in some of Richie’s clothes.” 

“Oh my _God,_ Ben, you evil fucking genius,” Bev gasps, and follows it with a loud, smacking kiss on some part of his body. “I love you.” 

“I hate all of you!” Richie screams, holding up both middle fingers without moving his head again. “You’re all dead to me!”

This is when the door opens up again, and Richie hears the voice currently haunting his every waking and sleeping thought ask, confused: 

“Who’s dead to you?” 

Richie groans for a whole breath, until his lungs feel like they’re going to burst, and then waves a hand in the direction of Mike’s room. He still does not pick his face up off of the table. 

“Every single person in that room. If you’d like to remain on my good side, I suggest you stay out here where it’s safe.” 

“Yeah, because I’ve really been known to care about staying on your good side, asswipe.” 

Richie opens his mouth to retort, to sell his case on why every single one of their friends needs to perish Right This Instant, but it gets caught in his throat at the feeling of two small, strong hands sliding into his hair. Richie’s hands, now palm-down on the table, clench into fists. 

Eddie ruffles his curls a little, and then he asks, voice soft but serious: 

“Are they actually being mean to you? Do I need to go in there and crack some skulls?” 

All of the tension in Richie’s body melts away, sexual or otherwise, and he lifts his face off of the table to look at Eddie. Eddie doesn’t take his hands out of Richie’s hair, so he has no other choice but to tip his head back to look at him, until he’s leaning against the soft, warm swell of Eddie’s stomach. Eddie gives him a look that matches his touch, soft but serious, and Richie loves him so deeply, so wholly, that his bones ache with it. 

Richie puts on his best pout, hoping that Eddie will take pity on him. “Yes. I now wholeheartedly hate every single beautiful, jacked inch of Ben Hanscom.” 

When it becomes apparent that Richie is not actually upset, and the others are not actually attacking him, Eddie laughs. It’s loud and sweet and worth all of the harassing he’s been subjected to tonight to hear. 

“You do not,” Eddie replies. He looks away from Riche into Mike’s bedroom, where the others are all still gabbing and giggling away, and calls out: “Hey, Ben, Richie’s trying to tell me he hates your guts!” 

“I guess I deserve it!” Ben calls back. “He’s been at the table for almost a half an hour now.” 

Eddie snorts. “What could you have possibly done to make Richie hate you? That’d be like hating golden retrievers.” 

“I can’t say for sure,” Ben tells him, and Richie, despite the nonsense, feels a blip of gratitude that none of the Losers are actually telling Eddie why he’s having a mental breakdown at 9 P.M. “But whatever it is, it’s probably valid.” 

“No it’s not. No one in the world hates you.” Eddie shakes his head, but when he looks back at Richie, he’s smiling widely. He’s so beautiful, even upside down, that Richie’s throat constricts. “You don’t hate Ben Hanscom.” 

“I wish I did,” Richie protests weakly. 

“No you don’t, you love him more than you can stand,” Eddie says, and then, because everyone and their mom wants Richie to die tonight, leans down and presses a soft kiss to his forehead. While Richie is trying to process the kiss, _Kill Bill_ sirens blaring in his brain, Eddie shimmies into the bathroom after giving Richie’s curls one last muss. 

Even though Richie can’t really see Ben, apparently Ben is able to see Richie, and consequently, everything that just went down. 

“Hey, Richie! I guess things are working out for you tonight after all.” 

Richie leans his body to the left until Ben comes into view and solemnly shakes his head. 

“It really isn’t,” Richie says, and lightly brushes the tips of his fingers over the spot that Eddie kissed. He can only _imagine_ the moony expression on his face right now. Even though Ben is to blame for Richie losing his mind, he supposes that it isn’t Ben’s fault that he’s a useless gay moron every other day of the year. “You’re still the catalyst of my demise.” 

Stan leans over until he can Richie again, too, and says: “Funny, I thought it was your Sunday best Hawaiian shirt?” 

Ben makes sure to call out: “And your favorite jacket! The one he stole last week at dinner!” 

“Shut up! I’ll break in and flush all of your New Kids On The Block cassettes down the toilet, Benjamin! Where they belong!” 

At this, Ben raises two fists into the air. “Don’t you fucking dare! I’m not afraid to take this outside!” 

“That’s where I’ll be anyways, since you want to kill me!” 

Eddie comes out of the bathroom as Richie says this, and he gives him another disbelieving look. 

“Are you sure you’re okay? I guess I get you saying something about hating Ben, since you’re always wrong anyways, but Ben wanting to _kill you?_ Are you ISS Enterprise Richie Tozier?” 

“If ISS stands for I’m Super Stupid, then yes!” Bill hollers. 

“He does want to kill me!” Richie insists, ignoring Bill’s and the others’ guffawing. He waits for Eddie to sit down at the seat opposite of his before reaching out and clasping both of their hands together. “You have to believe me, Eds.” 

“I’m sorry, I just can’t.” Eddie says. “But I’ll be here for you when you’re ready to accept the truth.” 

“Betrayed by my only remaining companion,” Richie bemoans, head falling back onto the table. He barely listens to Eddie’s fussing over him cracking his glasses or _Your big fucking forehead, Richie, it’s like a hardboiled egg, I know it’s hiding somewhere under your jungle of hair._ “It was nice knowing you all. I’m off to find friends who care about my wellbeing and hardships.” 

“It was nice knowing you, too.” Eddie squeezes his hands. “But it’ll be even nicer when you come back and stop being a little bitch. And apologize to Ben for thinking he’d ever kill you. He cries when he accidentally steps on ants.” 

Eddie receives two whines in response: Ben’s for emphasizing how soft he really is, and Richie’s for not receiving the sympathy he was wheedling for. 

“Don’t pretend like I’m not right.” 

He doesn’t clarify who he’s talking to, but Richie figures out pretty quickly that he’s still talking to both of them, and so does Ben, if his: “Yeah, I know.” is anything to go by. Richie’s not willing to give into it as easily, and he just rolls his head back and forth over the surface of the table, playing this bratty toddler persona up to its full effect. 

“Nobody loves me,” Richie croons, but squeezes Eddie’s hands back to show he’s kidding. “I’m Mr. Lonely. I have nobody, for my ooooown, ooahhhh--” 

A set of footsteps comes out of Mike’s room and stops by Richie. The scent of popcorn and citrus body wash tells him it’s Bill, and Richie barely restrains himself from turning and biting Bill’s arm like an actual bratty toddler. 

“Don’t be t-too sad, Richie,” Bill whispers. “You still have the photos and leather pants to love you.” 

Richie aims a kick at Bill’s knee and Bill dodges, laughing, before escaping into the bathroom. When he chances a look up at Eddie, Eddie looks lost, but amused, and Richie cannot stop thinking about him shoved into a pair of leather pants. Bill Denbrough is not just an evil man, he’s _the_ evilest man Richie’s ever had the misfortune of knowing. 

“Bill Denbrough is the evilest man that I’ve ever had the misfortune of knowing.” 

“Wrong again,” Eddie sighs, but he doesn’t sound like he cares too much about correcting Richie’s mistakes _or_ knowing what exactly is going on. “It’s okay. We’ve all been the biggest idiot in the room.” 

“Really?” 

“No, not really. It was fun to pretend for a minute, though.” 

Richie needs new friends _and_ a new boy to pine helplessly after. “I’m moving to the mountains to become a shepherd. The only person I’ll be speaking to after today is the good Lord above.” 

“You probably need it. He’s the only one that could save you at this point.” 

Bill, through the bathroom door, hollers again: “Yeah, and then you can come back over to the USS Enterprise: Un-Super Stupid!” 

Richie loudly says: “Bill, I would sell you to the Klingons for one corn chip.” and Eddie laughs so hard he wheezes. Richie looks at him again, at their joined hands and Eddie’s perfect teeth and his crinkled eyes, and thinks that this will be a great image to see before Bill and Ben send him off to the final frontier in the sky. 

When Bill emerges from the bathroom, he fixes Richie with a jaunty, up-turned nose. 

“Who’s to say I’m not already in league with the K-Klingons?” 

“Now _that_ I can believe,” Richie proclaims, and squawks when Bill chops him in the neck. “Ow! Fuck you! Give me my corn chip back!” 

Richie has to take his hands out of Eddie’s to fight Bill, and Eddie just watches them, exasperated. 

“Thank Christ they didn’t let you guys into NASA or we’d be fucked.” 

“Hey!” they yell at the same time, Richie’s hands wrapped around Bill’s neck, and Bill’s wrapped around Richie’s, and Eddie just laughs and laughs and laughs and Richie falls deeper into the black hole he knows he’ll never find his way out of. 

**_~.~.~_ **

Richie thinks he’ll be better prepared for Eddie’s photos the second time around, but he is so, so, _so_ unbelievably wrong. 

It happens when they’re all crammed inside of Ben and Stan’s dorm room; they live on the first floor of Bill and Mike’s building, and have been hosting game night since September. Before they can get to their game of the night, Bev and Bill have some homework to finish up, so the rest of them are just lounging around and wasting time. Bev and Bill have their shop set up at Ben and Stan’s dollhouse kitchen table; Stan is sitting in his room, reading a book; Ben is sitting on one end of the futon that they managed to shove into the kitchen, and Eddie is draped across the other half of it, his head in Ben’s lap, both of them on their phones; Richie and Mike are sitting on the ground next to the futon, playing a peaceful game of Words With Friends.

“Fuck you, Hanlon!” 

“In what universe would the word ‘tent’ beat out zesty? It’s your own fault.”

Richie can out-talk just about anyone in the world except for Eddie, but he is startlingly _bad_ at Words With Friends. It probably has something to do with the fact that his regular vocabulary consists of words like ‘twat biscuit’ and ‘assbitch’, but that’s besides the point. It’s not his fault that Mike is smart enough to know words like ‘zesty’ and ‘maudlin’ and remember to play them in the heat of the moment. 

“This game is homophobic,” Richie decides, because it’s the only logical explanation. 

Mike gives him a look that he most definitely picked up from Stan. “Yup. Seeing as how we’re both super gay.” 

Richie frantically scans his letters, now that he has been gifted with T, P, and A. He’s gonna take down Mike Hanlon in this stupid fucking game once and for all. 

“Quick, someone with a brain! I need a word that uses the letters T, A, P, R, H, W, or S.” 

“That would be none of us,” Bev comments, not looking up from her laptop. 

There’s a moment of silence, while Richie tries to come up with a word, or an elaborate scheme to steal Mike’s phone and flee to his dorm, when Ben glances up and simply says: 

“Trash.” 

Bill raises a fist, but like Bev, does not look away from his homework. “The king using his rightful title.” 

“Bill, choke on Stan’s dick. Ben, I will marry you right this instant.” 

While a round of displeased noises circles throughout the room, Richie happily plays the word ‘trash’ in the game. It earns him 15 points because his R tile is a double pointer, and when his turn is successfully completed, he grins smugly. 

“Beat that, Dr. Seuss.”

Mike gives him a look that he most definitely picked up from Eddie. Richie watches him pick through the tiles, humming to himself, and genuinely thinks he’s finally got Mike beat. But then Mike taps out a word, mouth stretching into a satisfied smile, and Richie sees that he’s suddenly been awarded 30 points. 

“‘Vapid’?” Richie screeches; at this point, he’s shocked that smoke is not literally billowing out of his ears. “Are you fucking kidding me! Who thinks of a word like that during an actual game!” 

“Someone who’s not vapid.”

“This stupid fucking game is fucking vapid! You’re not supposed to be a twenty year old who plays the word ‘vapid‘! You’re supposed to play shit like ‘poop’ and ‘doggy’, not the AP Language buzzwords.” 

Eddie makes a rude noise. “Rich, why do you even have Words With Friends if you think that ‘doggy’ is an acceptable word to play?” 

“I’m wounded!” Richie says, slapping his free hand over his heart. “I’m a master of word spinning!” 

“No, you’re actually--” Mike leans over to get a look at his phone, and while Richie is otherwise occupied, plays the word ‘bad’ for him, earning a measly 4 points. “That.” 

Richie releases a strangled scream, and then he exits out of the app, effectively throwing their game right in the garbage. 

“There, now neither of us are winners.” 

“Pretty sure it’s still me,” Mike says at the same time that Stan yells: “Pretty sure it’s still Mike!” 

Richie wields his phone like a sword. “You stay out of this, Pops Pops. Go back to reading your bird book and let the kiddies handle this themselves.” 

Stan laughs and stands up, coming to the doorway of his room. “That’s funny, coming from someone who has the vocabulary of a middle schooler.” 

“Better than having the vocabulary of someone who was alive during the Great Depression.” 

“Down, boys.” Beverly tells them. “It’s not even time for the real game and you’re already at each other's throats. Leave the bloodshed for later.” 

“If you don’t want me to kill Richie before the game then you should make him sit out in the hallway! How many times do we need to go over th--holy _shit,_ Eddie.” 

Eddie, who has barely spoken a word besides pushing Richie’s buttons, and who hasn’t moved from his spot on Ben’s lap in an hour, blinks. “Excuse me?” 

Ignoring the question, Stan leans down to get a better look at Bev’s screen. Richie can count on one hand how many times Stan has ever been stunned into silence; the last time was when they were all studying at the library during midterms, and Richie asked him, at a crisp 2 A.M., if he thought that Nemo ever ended up finding himself while also being found. 

Stan gapes at whatever’s on Bev’s laptop, eyes and mouth perfect little ‘o’ shapes. He doesn’t say anything else, just stares like he’s looking up at the moon for the first time. And then he curls an arm around Beverly’s shoulders and turns to stare at her. 

“These are… Holy shit.” 

“Stan, are you being sweet to me right now?” Bev asks, like Stan doesn’t treat her like a queen on a daily basis. 

“Duh. You are a fucking godsend. Holy _shit,_ Eddie!” 

“What did I do?” Eddie snaps.

Stan raises his eyebrows and does a little motion between Bev’s laptop and Eddie’s annoyed face. It takes a few seconds, but something must click, because Eddie groans loudly. 

“Oh, God, please don’t--” 

“They’re adorable,” Stan gushes, laughing brightly. “This is the last thing I expected!” 

“I will actually kill you,” Eddie promises, baring his teeth, but makes no move to get off of Ben’s lap. 

“Too late. I’m already dead because of how cute you are!” Stan looks away from Eddie to Richie, and says to him: “Hey, _Are You Smarter than a 5th Grader_ _,_ you might want to come check these out.” 

“Fuck you, Uris, I’m at least as smart as a--” Richie starts, and then stops, because the implication behind Stan and Eddie’s squabble finally hits him. “Oh, no _fucking_ way.” 

“Stop!” Eddie cries, but Richie easily dodges his grabbing hands as he scrambles to his feet. “Not again! This is so embarrassing!” 

“Never!” Richie cries back. 

He feels a large hand press into his lower back and knows that it’s Mike, trying to haul himself up with Richie’s inadvertent help. Mike laughs when Eddie takes a swipe at him, too, and yells: “Stan, are they beautiful?” 

Stan wipes a fake tear off of his cheek. “They’re modern art.” 

Coming to a halt in front of Bev’s laptop is like watching a train derail in slow motion. Richie already knows that whatever he sees, whatever she put Eddie in and however she posed him, is going to be devastating. Richie has been plagued with images and dreams of Eddie wearing that sexy red turtleneck and oxfords for days at this point, and it’s brought him more grief than reprieve. He knows that whatever the new photos look like will do nothing but the same. He knows that whatever happens from here on out, he will only spiral farther and farther into the ninth circle of Hell and his friends will be free to watch him do so. 

Richie knows this and still, like staring down the barrel of a loaded gun, or sticking his head inside of a lit canon, he looks down at whatever picture stopped Stan in his tracks. 

Where the Banana Republic photos were sleek and sexy, this photo is soft and cute. In it, Eddie is propped up against some tree that Bev found on campus, a book covering the lower half of his face. He’s dressed in a puffy green windbreaker, a button-up shirt with primary colored-vertical stripes, light wash jeans that are rolled up at the ends, his trusty white knee-high socks, and a pair of well-worn and well-loved black high top Converse. 

“Oh, fuck,” Richie whispers, heart shattering into a million pieces. “This is _so cute.”_

“Richie, I will rip your mouth off of your face.” 

He doesn’t even turn to make a _Who, me?_ face at Eddie; all that Richie has the brain function left to do is release a dying vacuum noise and press a finger into Bev’s screen. 

Mike, who is not in love with Eddie and is also not completely useless, takes it upon himself to say: “Damn, this looks really good!”

“No it doesn’t.” 

“Hey, don’t insult Beverly’s work like that,” Stan scolds Eddie. “This is beautiful. I will not allow you to besmirch her name. Or yours, for that matter.” 

“Sorry, _mom,”_ Eddie sasses, and it’s a joke he makes so rarely for so many reasons that it shocks Richie out of his stupor. 

“Are there more?” Richie asks dumbly, finally taking his finger off of her screen. “Give me more, Marsh.” 

She laughs deeply. “Never thought you’d ask, Tozier.” 

Bev hits a key and another picture of Eddie fills the screen. This one is still in the same pose as the first, his back against a tree and a book in his hands, but the book is resting in his lap and Eddie is clearly mid-laugh. He’s grinning hard enough that his eyes are almost squeezed shut, and Richie can see each and every one of his perfect pearly whites. He’s so gorgeous that Richie’s knees almost buckle. 

“Wow,” he manages, throat dry. “I… wow.” 

“I think you annihilated him,” Bill stage-whispers. 

Bev hits the key again. This one is of Eddie still smiling widely, but with his eyes closed and his head tilted back against the tree. He’s clutching the book close to his chest, like he just read something funny, or like he needs something to hold onto so he won’t float away. She hits it again, and again, and again, and Richie watches the images pour in. A few more of Eddie against the tree, laughing, smiling, or just looking over the edge of his book at Bev’s camera. Then a few of him stretched out on the grass in a patch of sunlight, eyes closed and a pleased smile in place. Then a few of him walking along one of the trails that leads into the woods at the edge of campus, hands stuffed into the pockets of his windbreaker or lightly brushing along the trunks of the trees. 

Richie’s favorites are the ones that Bev took while Eddie was inside of the woods. She gets a few of him looking through a thicket of branches, and the stark green of them makes the brown of his eyes rich and brilliant. She gets a few where Eddie’s head is tilted back, so that he’s looking up at the ceiling of trees, and takes the shot in a way that has the camera following the line of his throat. Richie’s absolute favorite is the one where Eddie is surrounded by nothing but trees and is looking up towards the sky again, but Bev is right in front of him so that the camera picks up all of the reverent joy on his face. So that the viewer can see how beautiful Eddie is while he admires how beautiful everything else around him is.

Richie’s never seen a more gorgeous human being in his entire life. He means to say something along those lines, or just something that could pass as encouragement, but instead he says: 

“You look like you just waltzed right off the set of _Reading Rainbow,_ Eds.” 

Eddie stammers for a second, and then scowls deeply. “Fuck you. At least I don’t look like I just waltzed off of the set of _Sesame Street.”_

_“Sesame Street?”_

“Yeah, _Sesame Street,”_ Eddie repeats. “You goddamn Snuffleupagus-looking bitch.” 

Richie wants to be offended, but he really can’t. A little because he knows that Eddie’s kind of right, but a lot because Eddie is still curled up on Ben’s lap and Richie wants to die from how adorable he looks. 

“Excuse me, that’s Big Bird to you.” 

Mike turns to him. “Aren’t you Oscar? Because you live in the trash?” 

“No, Eddie would be Oscar because he’s always a grouch and he lives _with_ the trash.” 

That makes them all laugh, including and especially Eddie. Bill heaves himself up from his chair long enough to tell Richie: “But you’re _our_ trash, and Eddie is _our_ emotional support bastard,” and kisses him on the cheek before dropping back down. 

Bev curls an arm around Richie’s back and leans against him. 

“Thank you for your undying support, but do they look good? I know Eddie looks stunning as always, but is the lighting okay? Does the outfit match the background? Professor Lowe wanted us to do shit outside this time for Photo I, and I prefer inside shoots because the backgrounds are predictable and easier to work with--” 

“Marsh,” Richie cuts her off, and while still looking at the picture of Eddie’s throat and his bronzed hair, rests his chin on top of her head. “They’re fantastic. You still belong in Vogue. Take a deep breath, sweetness.” 

She does. Bev releases a long, deep breath and sags against Richie. Around the edges of the screen, where Eddie’s picture doesn’t quite reach, he sees her smile gratefully. 

“Thanks, buddy. And thanks Stan and Mike. I adore you as well.” 

“What about me?” Bill asks, looking at her expectantly. 

“You’re okay,” she teases, like Bill is not the person in the room she’d die for most, next to Ben. 

And speaking of Ben: “What about _me,_ babe?” 

Beverly cranes her head around Richie to grin salaciously at him. “Come over here and I’ll show you how much I adore you.” 

Ben looks at her, looks down at where Eddie is comfortably resting against his thighs, and then looks back at her. “Sorry, it’s against the law to move if there’s a cat in your lap.” 

“Hey,” Eddie protests, but it’s lukewarm at best, and Bev just shrugs before blowing Ben a kiss. 

Because Richie is a glutton for punishment, he starts to flip through all of the photos again, studying the hot, warm sunlight on Eddie’s freckled skin and the way the green of his windbreaker and the forest brings out the syrupy amber in his eyes. While Richie slowly and surely falls apart, he asks Bev: “What was the theme for Visual?” 

“Popular styles of years before!” she declares dramatically. “Basically, Professor Slate wanted us to put someone in clothes that were popular at a time in history before the past ten years.” 

“You should have put him into something from the French Revolution.” 

“You got the money for all of the coats and tights and shit?” 

“Point taken.” 

“I wanted to put him in stuff from the 40s,” she admits, sighing almost forlornly. “Big white shirt, suspenders, trousers--the whole pre-serum Steve Rogers deal.” 

Richie’s glad that she didn’t, because he would be dead right now. 

“Why didn’t you?” Stan asks. 

“Couldn’t round up the right stuff in time. Even I, fashion goddess, have my limits. The essay we had to do for Lit Analysis kicked my ass and I didn’t have a lot of time to scour Goodwill. But I think I did pretty okay with my take on the 80s.” 

Stan nods in agreement. “You did excellently. He looks like Anthony Michael Hall.” 

“Is that the only person you can think of?” Eddie bitches. “I know I’m a fucking dweeb, but you could’ve given me someone else just this once. Ilan Mitchell-Smith? Corey Feldman? I would have even taken Sean Astin for today.” 

“No you would not have!” Mike yells. 

“Actually--” Bev interjects, sensing a shitstorm approaching. “My inspiration was _Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.”_

“I can see it,” Richie tells her. “But Eddie’s not really a Ferris Bueller type.” 

Eddie laughs, even though they’re still picking on him a little. “What? Impulsive and annoying?” 

And Richie can’t help but laugh back, even though his brain is nothing but a block of jello right now. “Fun and cool.” 

Bev hums. “Yeah, you’re right. That’s why I called this look ‘Cameron Frye’s Day Off.’” 

Richie, who was deeply in love with sarcastic, biting Cameron Frye when he was a teenager, is very pleased and very horrified to hear this. 

“Is that so?” 

Bev’s evil grin says it all. “It was a genius combination. Ferris’ taste in fashion and Cameron’s personality. No one in my classes is going to know, but I thought it’d be a fun little nod for all of us, since Eddie and Cameron are identical twins.” 

Richie can’t help it, and says: “What? Up-tight and volatile?” 

And Bev just laughs and replies: “Sweet and the real protagonist of the story.” 

The rest of them let out a chorus of “Awww!”s at Beverly’s kind words, while Eddie looks at her with wide, surprised eyes. She leans around Richie again so that she can point at Eddie and sing: 

“Cameron Frye, this one’s for you!” 

Eddie smiles softly at her. “You know, Bev, if I wasn’t otherwise occupied, I’d come over there and kiss you.” 

Ben playfully clamps an arm around Eddie’s side. “He is, in fact, otherwise occupied, and will not be doing so.” When Eddie just snuggles farther into his hold, Ben gives up his tough guy act. “Rich, bring the pictures over here. I want to see them too.” 

“Benothy, it would be my absolute pleasure. One slideshow of Eddie Spaghetti from Shermer High, coming right up.” 

Richie scoops Bev’s laptop up with shockingly steady hands and carries it over to the futon. Eddie moans and groans about having to see himself on camera, but folds his legs up so that Richie has somewhere to sit down without being asked. Richie hooks an arm under them while he’s settling in, and then pulls Eddie’s legs across his own so that he can rest Bev’s laptop on top of his hip. 

Richie waves a hand over the screen like a magician revealing their greatest trick. “Feast yer eyes upon the greatest treasure of the sea: ‘Cameron Frye’s Day Off’, photographed by the lovely lassie Beverly Marsh.” 

“Haven’t heard Black Beard in a while,” Ben comments as he turns the laptop towards himself. “Should probably keep it that way.” 

Richie feels it when Eddie giggles at that, and as a result, forgets that he’s still supposed to be fawning over the photos. Instead, he studies Eddie’s easy smile, and the way his eyes are crinkled at the corners, and wonders how bad the consequences would be if he just crawled over Ben’s lap and kissed the fuck out of Eddie.

“Aw, these are so cute.” Ben says, completely unaware of the way Richie’s remaining brain cells are being _Space Invaders_ -d off one by one. “You really suit the 80s style, Eddie. You look just like all the actors I had a crush on when I was a kid.” 

Eddie punches Ben’s knee, but it lacks any and all bite. “No I don’t.” 

“You do! I would have definitely had posters of you on my wall when I was in middle school.” 

“Maybe we can have something arranged,” Bev goads. “I don’t know if you know this, but I have some ins at the Photography department.” 

“You don’t say?” Bill asks, sounding shocked. Bev kicks him under the table, and he kicks back without missing a beat or a word out of his textbook. 

Eddie flips over so that his back is pressed against Ben’s legs and points at him. Richie adjusts the laptop so that it’s balanced precariously on his stomach. “If you make a poster of me, I swear to fucking God I will end you.” 

“I didn’t say I was going to,” Ben tells him, raising both hands up. “Why are you threatening me?” 

“You’re right.” Eddie points his finger over at Bev instead. “If you make a poster of me, I swear to fucking God I will end you.” 

“Promise?” 

“Slowly and painfully.” 

“I look forward to it.” 

Ben shakes his head a little, now back on the photos. He makes small noises here and there at particular ones he likes, and then he eventually stops on one where Eddie is laughing and holding onto Bev’s out-stretched hand, the only part of her that’s been in any of the photos thus far. At first glance, it looks like Eddie is dragging her along with him on the trail. But Richie notices Eddie’s body language, the way his shoulders are relaxed and his hips are angled forward, and knows that this photo was taken when Eddie was just hanging off of Beverly’s hand and she was swinging him around. Richie loves it, loves knowing Eddie enough to know that the photo could have been him pulling Bev along and leading the way; he loves knowing that Eddie let her take the lead this time and just went with the flow instead. 

“This is the one I would have had a poster of.” 

Eddie looks at it, and pauses. Richie expects him to scoff and push the laptop away, or demand that they all stop embarrassing the fuck out of him by showing him the pictures, but he doesn’t. He looks at the picture for a long moment, and then he grins. 

“Me too. I like this one.” 

“Which one?” Bev asks. Ben shows her, and when Bev speaks again, after her own pause, her voice sounds suspiciously thick. “Me too, Eddie. It’s my favorite.” 

“No feelings!” Stan yells, even as he hurries to run a comforting hand through Beverly’s curls. “Let’s go back to making fun of how Eddie looks like Dustin Diamond.” 

“Okay, that’s out of line!” 

Bev pulls Stan closer so that she can wrap both of her arms around him. Stan allows it, sliding his other hand across her shoulders. Satisfied, she turns to look at Bill. “Are you almost done? I think we need to start the game so the kids can release their pent-up rage.” 

“One more question! I’m s-shit at remembering stuff about the Cold War, but I’m finally almost fucking done.” 

Mike hisses sympathetically. “It’s because the United States and Russia are the two most uninteresting countries in the entire world.” 

Richie rather disagrees: “Nah, it’s because Bill is a himbo.” 

Everyone but Stan immediately loses their shit; Stan’s poker face is tried and true, so he’s able to conceal his amusement even though he’s practically vibrating from holding it in.

Bill squints at Richie. “A what?” 

And because Richie is ready for nothing more than for death to sweep him off of his feet, he says it again. “A himbo.” 

“What in the goddamn hell is a himbo?” 

“A himbo is a he-bimbo.” 

Bill, agitated, turns to his boyfriend. Stan takes pity on him at once, and explains: “You’re an idiot, but we still love and adore you because your heart is in the right place. Like Thor. Or Kelso.” 

“Fuck you, Richie, I’m not a h-himbo!” 

“Bill, last week you almost concussed yourself because you tried to shove open a pull door,” Richie says, sounding just a little sorry about it. “You also forgot the difference between Washington state and Washington D.C.” 

“I’m not a himbo!” Bill says again, because both of these events are true and he knows it. “Your mom is a himbo.” 

Richie raises both eyebrows, as if to say: _That sentence proves my point, Big Bill._ Bill throws a balled-up piece of paper at him and goes back to scribbling out his homework answer. 

“I’m finishing this shit up r-right now. I’ve got some rage to release myself.” 

Richie catches Stan’s eye when Bill announces this, and gives Stan a very pointed, exaggerated wink. Stan just tells him: “You’re disgusting. You’re also, like, the king of morons, so you calling Bill a himbo is kind of rich to me.” 

“It’s Rich indeed,” Richie agrees, and Stan rolls his head eyes hard enough that it must hurt. 

There’s some loud, frantic scribbling for a minute or so, and then Bill drops his pen like it burnt him. “I’m done! Fuck this and fuck you! Let’s get the game s-started so I can destroy Richie’s ass. See who the real himbo is.” 

“What game are we playing?” Beverly asks, getting up to grab her laptop from Ben and Richie. Richie hands it over reluctantly, and Bev obviously sees it in his face, because she makes a _very_ discreet typing motion and then points at him. Luckily, Eddie’s still fucking around on his phone and doesn’t see the abysmal hand signals. 

“I get to pick tonight,” Mike replies. “And I want to play a good old fashioned game of Cards Against Humanity.” 

“Excellent!” Bill cries, throwing himself into the spot on the floor where Richie had been sitting earlier. “I always win this game!”

Eddie grunts. “You haven’t won it the last five times we’ve played.” 

“I sometimes win this game!” Bill amends, and makes a very rude gesture at Richie. “And tonight will be one of those nights.” 

“Bring it on, James Diamond.” 

“Oh yeah, we got two Diamonds in the house tonight.” 

Eddie glares at Stan. “If you ever refer to me as Dustin Diamond again, I’ll make sure they never find your body.” 

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.” 

Richie, in spite of his own desires and wishes, pushes on Eddie’s legs. “Hey, Cam, time to get up so we can fucking obliterate Himbrough.” 

As Eddie struggles to a sitting position, he tells Richie: “You know, I’d suggest that you take it easy so that Bill doesn’t end up going feral and pushing you down the stairs, but maybe it’d be good for all of us.” 

“Who? Jeanie Bueller? Not a chance.” 

_“Richie!”_

Everyone eventually puts their phones and/or laptops away and gets settled in the kitchen. Ben, Eddie, and Richie stay on the futon, and the other four curl up on the floor, patiently watching as Mike separates all of their cards and hands them out. When Mike presents his cards, Richie is immediately ecstatic about his selections: The Milkman, Crumbs all over the goddamn carpet, A cooler full of organs, Inserting a mason jar into your anus, An Oedipus complex, Bees?, and The Holy Bible. 

With flagrant disregard for the no sharing rule, he leans over to flash Eddie ‘An Oedipus complex’. “Sound familiar?” 

Eddie grimaces and shoves him away. “Gross! That’s only if you want to fuck your own mom, dickface.” 

They end up getting separated by the second round, a new personal record of theirs. Mike acts as Card Czar first, pulling the card that says, “During sex, I like to think about _____.” Eddie plays ‘The clitoris’ and Richie plays ‘An Oedipus complex’ because he knows it’ll piss Eddie off. Richie’s card is announced before his, and Eddie screams and starts punching him; when it’s revealed what Eddie’s card is, Richie starts crying because he laughs so hard, and Bev forces him to switch places with Stan so that Eddie won’t kill him with his bare hands. 

“Why am I in trouble?” Richie wheezes, still crying. “He’s the one who lied!” 

“Richie, I _fucking swear--”_

“Oh, I’m not separating you because you’re being bad,” Bev says, pulling him close. “I’m separating you for your own safety.” 

“Should’ve just let him kill Richie,” Bill tells her, looking at his cards. “I, for one, a-am in favor of it.” 

Richie puts a hand over his heaving chest. “Jeanie, I’m wounded. Just like Eddie’s mom every time she has to miss out on my god tier wang.” 

“Okay, that’s it!” Eddie starts to get up, practically foaming at the mouth, but the other two restrain him. “Fuck you, Tozier! When Ben and Stan stop caring about your well-being, it’s over for you!” 

“I don’t,” Stan lies. “I just don’t want you to commit a homicide in my dorm. Then Richie’s ghost will stick around to haunt us and we’ll never be free.” 

“Exactly,” Ben agrees, and Richie pretends to cry some more while Eddie thrashes around and swears at him. 

He holds off until they’re a few rounds in to make his final attack. Eddie’s ferocity calms down as they get farther into it, fists unclenching and laughter coming easily. Richie makes brief eye contact with Stan, who must see the plan written all over his face, because he subtly shakes his head. Richie subtly shrugs his shoulders back, as if to say: _I’m sorry, I just can’t help it Stanley the Manley!_ and Stan makes a complicated hand gesture that roughly translates to: _I will not hesitate to lock you in the bathroom for the next three hours if you can’t behave._

He waits until he becomes the Card Czar for the round, and reads with great delight: 

“‘Here is the Church, here is the steeple. Open the doors, and there is ____.’” 

Eddie, as usual, is one of the last people to choose a card. He always takes his time to carefully select the right choice, and Richie waits until he’s been looking for about thirty seconds before he says:

“Bueller? Bueller? Bueller?”

Eddie makes no move to hurry along. “I’m sorry, am I holding the game up?” 

“Bueller? Bueller?” 

“I already put my c-card in,” Bill says, trying not to laugh. “You can stop.” 

Richie takes this information in. Then he starts up again with: “Frye? Frye? Frye?”

Very slowly, and very, very silently, Eddie raises his head up. There is no emotion on his face as he stares down at Richie, so Richie is quick to wipe his face, too, until they’re just blankly staring at each other. Every inch of Eddie’s motionless body screams _I fucking dare you, Richard Tozier, I fucking dare you--_

“Frye?” 

Eddie lunges before Stan and Ben can grab him again, and then Richie is on his back with Eddie’s hands clenched around his hoodie. 

“Ben, you better go outside and put your fucking arms to work, because you’ll have a body to bury in just a second!” 

Ben just puts his head in his hands; Stan watches as Eddie proceeds to beat Richie up, laughing unconcernedly. 

Richie is enjoying this whole event more than he should, and tries to hide it by wrapping his hands around Eddie’s wrists and poorly singing: _“Let my Cameron gooooo.”_

“I’ll let my Cameron go all the way to the fucking Underworld, you annoying asshat.” 

“Should we try to stop it?” Bev asks. 

Bill looks up from his cards like he’s surprised there are other people still in the room with him. “Stop what? I think you’re hearing things.” 

“‘Hearing things?’ Like Eddie choking Richie out?” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Bill insists, and that’s when Eddie starts trying to shove Richie’s cards down his throat. 

All in all, it’s a pretty successful game night. 

**_~.~.~_ **

When they’re walking back to their dorm later, after Bev manages to kick all of their asses in Cards Against Humanity, Richie takes it upon himself to reassure Eddie he likes the pictures. 

“So,” he starts, throwing an arm around Eddie’s shoulders. “What’s it like to be the protagonist of an 80s film?” 

Eddie, who calmed down significantly after beating Richie up, allows it. He even smiles when he responds with: “It’s pretty cool. What’s it like looking like Gritty at all times of the day?” 

“Ouch. That was harsh, Eds.” 

Eddie knocks their hips together. “Don’t call me that, doofus.” 

“Then don’t call me Gritty.” 

“Oh, so it’s different when _you_ don’t want to be called something--” Eddie says, but then laughs, so Richie does too. 

They make their way through the line of dorm buildings, Eddie tucked up against Richie’s side and Richie practically skipping along. They make light comments about the game as they go, and Richie gathers his courage the longer they make fun of each other, until he can bring himself to say: 

“Hey, those pictures really are great, dude.” 

“You think so?” Eddie asks. His voice is casual, carefully light, but Richie hears everything he doesn’t say. He can feel it in the subtle bunch of Eddie’s shoulders, at the way he suddenly won’t look at Richie. 

Richie pulls him even closer, and drops the teasing edge out of his voice. He lets go of all the bullshit and says, very softly, very sincerely, maybe even a little pious: 

“I know so. They’re amazing.” 

Eddie ducks his head even further, but Richie can see the corners of his mouth turning up, and the light flush on his cheeks. He doesn’t call him out on it, and he doesn’t try to make a joke of his words. When Eddie gives in and curls his arm around Richie’s side, Richie ducks his head and smiles, too. 

“Thanks, Chee.” 

“No thang, baby.” 

They go through the motions of bitching about having to climb two flights of stairs when they get to their dorm, and then bitch about how loud their neighbors are while standing right outside of their door, hoping they’ll listen this time. Bowers and Hockstetter just turn their music up even higher, and Richie rolls his eyes, frog marching Eddie into their room. They go through the motions of changing into sleep clothes, wondering how they can get back at Bowers and Hockstetter without getting expelled even though they deserve payback at a level that would probably land them in federal prison. 

They go through the motions of coexisting together, and Richie goes through the motions of wondering if he’ll ever be lucky enough to have a future that feels exactly like this. 

“Hey,” Eddie says. Richie turns to him, and sees that he’s holding his laptop in one hand and two bags of microwave popcorn in the other. “Want to watch _Ferris Bueller’s Day Off?_ I’ve suddenly got a craving for Abe Froman’s sausage and bad boy Charlie Sheen.” 

Richie stares at him. He goes through the motions of knowing, without a single shred of doubt, that he’s never going to love someone as much as he loves Eddie Kaspbrak. 

“I love you.” Richie blurts. 

Eddie snorts and dumps his laptop on Richie’s bed before heading for the door. “Yeah, yeah. Love you too.” 

Richie goes through the motions of experiencing all five stages of grief until Eddie comes creeping back into the room, two bags of freshly popped popcorn in his hands. Eddie would usually rather do anything in the entire world than step foot in the communal kitchen, but Richie knows that he makes an exception for their impromptu movie nights because the popcorn is pre-bagged and he always bends his own rules around Richie. 

“Did you get it set up?” 

“Yeah,” Richie replies, because he was shockingly able to in between banging his head against Bowers and Hockstetter’s wall and wondering if it would be frowned upon if he started screaming at the top of his lungs. “It’s all good to go.” 

They crawl into Richie’s microscopic twin bed and curl up together, the laptop resting between their crossed legs. As the movie begins, Eddie tips over until his head is resting comfortably on Richie’s shoulder. 

“You know, I really am just like Cameron,” he whispers, when it gets to the part where Ferris calls Cameron up. “Eternally pissed off and freaking out.” 

“Yeah, you are,” Richie whispers back, but makes sure to follow it up with: “Brave as fuck and completely badass.” 

“Rich.” 

“Shh, you know I’m right.” Richie gently bumps their heads together, and then decides to leave it there, so that they’re resting on each other. “I’m just like Ferris. Pushy and immature.” 

Eddie laughs. “Yeah, you are. Uber righteous and the funniest fucking person I know.” 

“Eds.” 

“Shh,” Eddie hushes him, pressing his cheek to the bone of Richie’s shoulder. “You know I’m right.” 

Richie is so delighted that he can’t help but say, because he’s an idiot and also super gay: “I was in love with Cameron when I was a kid.” 

Eddie laughs again, and tells him: “Funny you mention that. I was definitely in love with Ferris when _I_ was a kid.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Eddie moves his head again, until his lips are _just_ brushing up against Richie’s ear, and Richie feels it just as much as he hears it when Eddie finishes with, “I still am.” 

“Ditto,” Richie breathes, his pea-sized hippocampus rolling around inside of his skull like a pinball. All he can really think of after that, besides the heat of Eddie’s skin pressing against his and the sound of Cameron Frye calling Rooney an asshole, is that if he wasn’t completely screwed before, he sure as hell is now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope yall enjoyed that chapter!!! i'm hoping to get the next one up v soon ♡♡♡♡♡ and thank you to everyone who left me such amazing comments/kudos on ch1!!!!! you are the lights of my life ♡♡♡♡♡
> 
> also u can pry 'chee' out of my dead cold gay hands


	3. r u mine?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bev takes eddie in a different direction fashion-wise and richie takes an L

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi eveyone!!!! long time no see!!!! lmao sorry about the long wait in between updates, i just coooullddd nooottttt get through this chapter. honestly i'm still not sure if it's that good but i'm tired of looking at it so here yall go. the rest of the fic is going to be a million times easier/more fun for me to write so hopefully ch4 comes much sooner! 
> 
> i'm sure my description of their library is wack, but i'm basing it off of my uni's library. it's a four story building made with all glass walls, and there's a basement level but it's all open concept, and there's basically a staircase at the front entrance that takes you to the basement level or up to the actual first level. also i hope my attempt at a small group chat clip was okay fdshshfd i love groupchat fics and i wish i was funny enough to write one but alas, this is all i have the courage to do. i'm hoping that the contact names make sense but in case you need a ref: daphne = bev, flapjack = ben, scott pilgrim = stan, professor sprout = mike, ponyboy = bill, and dr. mccoy = eddie
> 
> i asked a few of my friends who took a photography class in college what the experience is like in a dark room/how long the process takes, mixed it together with some googling, and this was the outcome. sorry if you actually know how to develop photos in a dark room and my description isn't completely accurate, feel free to shoot me a message on tumblr or in the comments letting me know what needs to be adjusted!! but please be nice i'm sensitive and dumb
> 
> there's a lot of the outsiders refs in this one so buckle up. and in case you're curious, [this is definitely the mood of this chapter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HMuv1Z_kCUY)

Richie’s elbow-deep into bullshitting an essay about the Galápagos Islands when an eraser hits him on the nose. 

He flinches violently, and then looks up to see Bev smiling at him. He gives her a blank, emotionless stare in return, and makes her wait before shoving his headphones off. He suddenly feels old beyond his years. 

“What.” 

“Yeesh. Who shat in your cereal, Tozier?” 

“Charles Darwin,” he replies sullenly. “And Professor Jensen.” 

“It can’t be that bad,” Stan says, not looking up from his Calc homework. “You’re writing about birds.” 

“Yeah, you’re right. Just what I’ve always been passionate about.” 

Mike, who is also slogging through some less-than-desirable science homework (he was one of the last who were able to get into Geology instead of Biology, lucky asshole), glances up at Richie and his annoyed face. “Why are you writing about birds for Bio?” 

Richie lets out an almighty sigh. “Our new unit is about evolution. I have to write an essay on an example of it and I just picked the first item on the topics list, which was the finches on the Galápagos Islands and the way their beaks evolved based on which island they lived on. It’s really great stuff, Mikey, you’d be having the time of your life.” 

“Hey, evolution’s pretty sweet. I’d much rather write about that than this essay I have to write on volcanoes. Who fucking cares? They blow up, wooooooo!” 

Ben, who has been deeply engrossed in his World History assignment, pipes up too. “Yeah, evolution’s rad. I’d love to write about that.” 

“Then have at it,” Richie tells them, shoving his textbook over towards their end of the table. “Let me know when you’re done so I can put the Tozier Touch on it, Lewis and Clark.” 

“Hey, man, that’s not exactly what I meant--” 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. C’mon, let’s switch! It’ll be a blast! You can geek the shit out of my evolution essay, and I can put my personal knowledge and love of volcanoes into yours.” 

There’s a pause, and then Bev asks him, voice hesitant: “What exactly do you mean by ‘personal knowledge’?” 

Stan, who is sitting closest to him, scoots away like he’s expecting Richie to pull out explosives and demonstrate for them right then and there. 

_“Jeez,_ relax, you weirdos. I just meant that I was always the 1st place prize holder at the science fair. I knew where to go to find the parts to make a pretty sick volcano, and every year I’d add something new to it.” 

Ben, amused, asks: “How the hell do you win a science fair more than once with the same project?” 

“I won it three years in a row,” Richie declares, holding his arms out to his sides. “Because I’m a cool cat. Also, one year I made the lava glittery and I guess that was a crowd pleaser.” 

Mike turns to Ben. “Richie Tozier, a crowd pleaser. Now that’s something I’d like to see.” 

“I don’t think you would,” Stan whispers pointedly. 

“Fuck you very much, Staniel. I was a gem in elementary school. You would have been too blessed to be stressed to know me.” 

Stan makes a face, but Richie can see the edges of his smile when he replies: “Blessed? Absolutely. But definitely not enough to not be stressed.” 

Mike laughs again. “I bet you were the kid who ate Play-Doh.” 

“Excuse me, but I will not tolerate these lies and slander. My nickname was properly earned because I ate chalk, you fool, not Play-Doh.” 

“Wow,” Mike winces. “They shouldn’t have stopped at Trashmouth. They should have just gone all the way to the whole dumpster.” 

Richie sticks his tongue out at him, and Mike relents, turning back to his homework. This is also when Richie remembers why his attention was abruptly pulled away from his essay in the first place. 

“Hey, Beverly Marsh! Why’d you hit me in the face with an eraser, anyways? I was mad deep into research on those sexy finches.” 

“Richie, you looked like you were ready to burn this place to the ground, previous consideration of you being a pyromaniac aside.” 

“I was _rockin’, rockin’ and rollin’, down to the beach I’m strollin’_ through that essay.” 

“No you weren’t. I _was_ going to offer to show you something more worthwhile than Charles Darwin’s journals, but if you’re going to be a shit about it--”

Richie slams his textbook shut, eager to focus on the promise of anything that is not his essay or a future of reading about evolution in fuckin’ birds. 

“Please, my queen, I’ll do anything.” 

Bev leans across the table so that she can talk lowly. “I thought that since the man in question and his royal jester are missing, that I’d give you a little sneak peek of Eddie’s new photos.” 

“Hey,” Stan says, presumably about Bev calling Bill a jester, just as Richie tells her: “I don’t know if I can emotionally handle that in public.” 

“You’ve done it before!”

“You mean the Banana Republic photos? Bev, I almost choked to death on some water. That doesn’t count.” 

“You did what?” Ben asks, laughing. “Rich, you are the biggest disaster gay I’ve ever met.” 

“I’m sorry, who was the one who had a crush on Jonathan _and_ Jordan Knight when they were in middle school? It sure as hell wasn’t me.” 

“Don’t get distracted,” Bev snips playfully. “All I’m saying is that I want you to take a look really quickly.” 

“In a _public area.”_ he reiterates, doubtful. 

“Trust me, babe. These are nothing like the Banana Republic photos. Or the Cameron Frye ones.” 

She’s smiling when she says this, but Richie feels like there’s something fishy going on. He doesn’t have the merit or certainty to call it like he sees it, though, so he holds a hand out for her phone. 

“If you say so. Eddie better be in a fucking hotdog costume or something.” 

Just as Bev places her phone into Richie’s hand, Mike says: “I’m sure that that would still somehow manage to wreck you.” 

“Probably,” he admits freely. 

As soon as he brings Bev’s phone up to his face, Richie realizes that, 1) he definitely should not be looking at this picture in public, 2) he was absolutely correct in assuming that Bev was out to fuck with him, and 3) Beverly Marsh wants him to die at all times. 

She was at least truthful in saying that this concept is nothing like the first two; instead, it’s much, much fucking worse. The energy of the photo and Eddie’s facial expression are similar to the Banana Republic photos, but where he was trying to appear smug or extremely confident in those, this one has the kind of energy that can only really be described as _broody._ The best way that Richie can summarize the concept of this picture is: Grungy Eboy Attends a The 1975 Concert and Doesn’t Have Fun. 

The dark, smudged look on Eddie’s face is definitely the worst part of the whole ordeal, but his outfit comes in at a pretty close second. With the first two concepts for Visual Thinking, they were at least clothes that Eddie semi-wears on a regular basis. But nothing in this ensemble even comes close to something that he would own or consider purchasing. Bev decked him to the nines in a blinding, gorgeous short sleeved button-up shirt with red carnations printed all over it; that shirt is buttoned up about a third of the way and left open over _the_ _tightest_ black t-shirt Richie’s ever seen in his goddamn life; both are tucked into a pair of black pants that could pass for business casual if they weren’t being held up by a thick black belt and cross-wired with all sorts of silver chains and buckles; the pants taper down into an enormous and chunky pair of platform boots, also complete with an entire row of silver buckles. Eddie’s hair is artfully slicked back, no trace of his Disney Prince curls to be seen. His eyes are smudged with what Richie suspects is a little bit of black eyeshadow and some eyeliner, and they make the intensity of his eyes even more prominent. 

It’s… a lot. 

Richie could get used to the outfit if he let his brain (and dick) adjust, but Eddie’s eyes still shred him to pieces in regular, day-to-day life, let alone the way they look on camera. Especially since this photo was taken while Bev was kneeling, lense tilted up to catch on his face more than anything. He’s got his arms and hands crossed carelessly in front of himself, bent down like he’s going to say something vicious or lunge at her. His mouth is turned down at one of the corners, and his eyebrows are furrowed deeply. The outfit is painfully well put together, and Eddie’s posing is phenomenal as always, and his facial expression really ties it all together, but his fucking _eyes._ They’re like the beginning of a fire, or the end of one after everything’s already been incinerated and reduced to ash. 

For a very long moment, where Bev is definitely staring at him, and the other three are probably staring at him, Richie just stares at this stunning, haunting picture of Eddie. He stares and stares and stares, heart tumbling around in his chest, throat tight, and lets the look on Eddie’s face scorch him. 

When Richie decides that his next best plan of action is to _say something,_ he looks up at Beverly and opens his mouth. He fully intends on going with: “Wow, this photo is phenomenal, I can’t wait to see the others!” or maybe: “This is my favorite concept yet!” But before he can connect his head and his tongue and get those two bastards on the same page, he opens his mouth nice and wide and shouts into the otherwise quiet library: 

_“Oh no, he’s hot!”_

There’s a very loaded pause, where even Bev looks stunned by this reaction. At the same moment that Richie realizes that he just _screamed_ a Squidward quote in the _fucking library,_ damn near thirty different students turn and look directly at him. Some of them are clearly trying not to laugh, but most of them have the same expression on their faces, one that unquestionably says _What in the everloving fuck is wrong with you, dude?_ Richie, for the first time maybe ever, feels his mind turn to complete white noise. 

Eventually, Mike wakes out of his shocked stupor and whispers a very sharp: “Jesus, Richie!” 

“Blame her!” he hisses back, pointing at Bev. Out of the corner of his eye he catches one of the students looking at him, their face set like Richie is an alien from outer space, and his breathing turns sharp. “You know what, due to personal reasons, I’m going to go find a corner to peacefully die in. Thank you all for your time in my life, but as of now, it has sadly come to an end.” 

And then, without further comment, Richie jumps to his feet, snatches his phone off of the table, and flees. He’s running away so quickly that he’s probably nothing more than a streak of maroon, thanks to his gaudy and well-loved Weasley sweater, and he pointedly ignores his friends whisper-yelling after him. He wonders if it would be frowned upon if he just crashed through the glass walls of the library and kept going, like in _Scooby Doo._

Richie doesn’t slow down until he has (quietly, thank you _very much)_ sprinted all the way up to the second floor, where their bad and bougie library has a coffee shop for whatever reason. It’s a little louder up here since a lot of other students are drinking coffee and eating _pain au chocolat oui oui_ and clustered together doing group projects. It hides the slight wheeze Richie’s got going on from all the running and dying internally. 

In a not-so-secretly ill-advised decision, he heads over to the coffee shop to buy something, fingers picking at the debit card he has shoved into the ‘wallet’ on the back of his phone. A very short girl with vibrant pink hair grins at him and says: “Hiya! What can I get started for you?” 

He pulls his debit card out and slaps it on the counter like it’s a million bucks. “Give me something sweet and strong. I don’t want to sleep for ten years.” 

The girl takes his request with zeal, rapidly typing something into the register.

“Anything else?” 

“As a matter of fact--if you hear some chit chat about a really tall guy with glasses and a hideous _Harry Potter_ sweater doing something dumb on the basement floor, please carry on and ignore it.” 

The girl gives him a once-over, clearly putting two-and-two together. She doesn’t ask, thankfully, just says: “Got it, broski.” 

Richie gives her a very sad, defeated hang loose and steps over to the other side of the counter to wait for his drink. He tries to keep track of what she’s making for him, but gives up after the third flavor of syrup she splashes into it, and instead focuses his attention on how to go about leaving the library without seeing anyone who heard him make a total fool of himself. He considers locating a hidden back staircase, convincing someone to switch clothes with him, and scaling the building from the fourth floor down to the ground. 

When the barista finishes his drink, she presents it with flourish; he takes the cup from her and squints at the lid. 

“What is it?” 

“Exactly what you need,” she says cryptically, and then twirls away, off to help the next person. 

“Thank you, sweet lady!” Richie calls after her. As he’s turning to go and find a spot to sit, he notices a smudge of black marker on the cup. When he turns it around, he sees **_HARRY DIDJA PUT YA NAME IN THE GOBLET OF FIYAH_** scribbled down the entire side, and if Richie slides a five dollar bill into the tip jar because of it, that’s no one’s business but his own. 

He finds a small table in the corner of the allotted cafe area and folds himself into one of the tiny chairs. When he takes a tentative sip, the coffee is strong and definitely kicks his ass, but exactly what he wanted. It’s the only thing that’s probably gone right today, he thinks, morose. His phone buzzes consistently while he drinks, and Richie watches the texts from their group chat pour in, the others wanting to know what the fuck just happened and where the fuck he went. 

**_coolsville sucks!_ **

**daphne:** riCHIE WHAT WAS THAT FHDSHFHD

 **flapjack:** i cannot believe that just happened omg 

**scott pilgrim:** Every day I think you can’t get more embarrassing but here we are 

**professor sprout:** lmfao he said siri play crazy frog 

**ponyboy:** god what did he do now

 **dr. mccoy:** hopefully got put in jail 

**ponyboy:** ya i don’t rlly wanna know lol 

**daphne:** he just SCREAMED!!!! a spongebob quote in the middle of the lib & then yeeted upstairs

 **dr. mccoy:** ……… PLEASE TELL ME IT WAS NOT THE HASH SLINGING SLASHER ONE 

**ponyboy:** i bet it was ravioli ravioli give me the formuoli 

**scott pilgrim:** That would be less terrible

 **dr. mccoy:** was is fuckin “is mayonnaise an instrument?” 

**flapjack:** close 

**professor sprout:** it was OH NO HE’S HOT!!!!!!!!! 

**ponyboy:** whyyyyyyy

 **daphne:** i showed him one of eddie’s new pics lmao

 **dr. mccoy:** BEV!!!!! RICHIE!!!!!! FSLKAFJSKFSJKFSAL!!!!!! 

**flapjack:** *spidermanpointingmeme.jpg* 

Richie lets out a muted scream and flips his phone over, burying his face in the hand that’s not holding his coffee. Fucking Beverly Marsh! If Richie didn’t love her like a limb, he would absolutely go down to the basement and duel her. She brings an _unnecessary amount of pain and suffering_ into his life on a daily basis, and he’s only one man. One man who is very gay and very much unable to handle Eddie Kaspbrak dressed up like a goddamn Greaser. 

He alternates between taking harried pulls of his coffee and ramming his forehead against his palm, wondering where in the fuck it all went wrong. It could have originated from the first photoshoot, when Bev showed him the pictures without Richie knowing that it was Eddie. It could be from the moment that Eddie agreed to be her model, the way Richie would react to it not even being on the table yet. It could be the way that Eddie has only become more beautiful and endearing to him over the months that they’ve been friends, and it could be the way that Richie has never loved someone so wholly and unbidden the way he loves Eddie. It could be any of those things, but Richie knows, deep down inside, that he was doomed the moment he laid eyes on Eddie for the first time, the very first day in their freshman dorm building; he’d been wide-eyed and scared and ready to start living. So far away from home and coming to life because of it. 

Richie gets about halfway done with his coffee before someone comes looking for him. Fortunately, it’s Stan. Unfortunately, it’s _Stan._

“That was quite the show,” is what he opens with, dropping into the chair across from Richie. “And you weren’t even trying this time. Bravo.” 

“This is unnecessary harassment. I’m probably blacklisted now--no need to rub salt in the wound, babe.” 

“Don’t call me babe,” Stan says, in a tone that he definitely picked up from Eddie. And just like Eddie, it’s more reflexive than sincere. “And you’re not blacklisted. You’re just an idiot.” 

Richie waves a hand, as if to say _Yes, I’m aware._ “Whatever. I’d still rather chew my own feet off than go back downstairs where everyone else is waiting for me. Like sharks in the water.” 

Stan rolls his eyes; he also swipes Richie’s coffee out of his other hand and takes a timid sniff. 

“This smells like the inside of Bill and Mike’s room when they’ve got essays to turn in.” 

It must be worse than Richie thought. “So?” 

_“So,_ why the hell are you drinking this? You’re going to be off your rocker until, like, 3 A.M.” 

“‘Off your rocker’? I knew you were born geriatric, but go _lly,_ that was a new low even for you.” 

Stan shoots him an unimpressed look and hands the cup over. “At least I was born with a brain.” 

“That you were,” Richie agrees, raising his drink up. “Congrats to you, it must be nice. And anyway, I was trying to gather enough fuel to Taz my way through the walls so I wouldn’t have to face the sharks.” 

Stan watches as he takes another long sip, face a combination of callousness and something that Richie would call amusement if he wanted to poke the bear. Richie stares back, even as he’s taking a drink, but apparently Stan is the only person in the entire world who doesn’t get flustered when he makes eye contact with someone drinking and/or eating.

Eventually, he tells Richie: “She showed us the picture.” 

The image rises to the forefront of Richie’s mind, like looking into the sun for too long. Tight blank pants, silver chains and buckles, beautiful, ruby red carnations, and Eddie’s fucking gorgeous eyes. His stomach twists without even having to look at it. 

Richie replies with a lame: “Yeah.” 

“I get it.” 

“Get what?” 

“Why you lost your fucking mind for no reason. He does look pretty hot like that.” 

Richie could say a lot of things about the conversation that’s currently transpiring, and the way that Stan probably came to find him just to make fun of him some more, but all he can really do at this point is accept his fate and agree. 

“He’s the hottest! It’s so _unfair_ how gorgeous he is. And how perfectly Bev manages to photograph him. It’s fucking _terrible,_ Stan!” 

“Terrible enough for you to scream about it in a public library.” 

“Yes!” Seized by a burning need to make him understand, Richie ditches his cup to grab Stan by both of his shoulders. “You think he’s hot, but not hot enough to blow up over? Sir, imagine if it was the love of _your_ life dressed like that. Imagine for a minute, if you will, that Bev convinced Bill to squeeze into those pants and that black t-shirt. Imagine if it was William Debrough himself giving Bev’s camera the broodiest Thorin Oakenshield stare possible. Would you be calm?” 

On the contrary, it looks like Stan might be hurtling towards a fit of sorts. His eyes are kind of bulging out of his head, and his cheeks are turning a blotchy, steady brick red, like a Polaroid developing. 

“Shut up, fuckface.” 

“Thank you for justifying my reaction,” he says simply, taking Stan’s words for what they are: an acknowledgement of Richie being right for once. “You would have screamed too. It was a lot to handle without proper warning.” 

“That doesn’t mean you needed to scream a Squidward quote into the library.” 

“Yeah, you’re right. Next time I’ll just scream.” 

Stan rolls his eyes again and sighs. “Are you ready to go back downstairs and act like an adult?” 

“Are you high? The sharks are still down there!” 

“The other people who heard and saw you acting like a moron? It’s not like they’re not used to it at this point. Actually, it probably rejuvenated their spirits. I saw that one of the girls who looked over at you was studying macroeconomics. She’ll probably ask you for your hand in marriage when we get back down there for giving her hope again.” 

This doesn’t exactly cheer him up. “But then I’ll have to tell her I can’t marry her and she’ll probably stuff me into the printer.” 

Something must show on his face, maybe the slightly-genuine fear or the very-genuine embarrassment that Richie so rarely feels, and it makes Stan soften. He leans forward across the table until he can settle his hands on both of Richie’s shoulders, until they’re holding onto each other just the same. 

“Richie, I promise it’ll be fine. Just come back downstairs with me. If anyone gives you shit, I’ll stuff them into the printer, okay?” 

“You’d do that for me?” 

“Definitely. I’d also do it to you, all for free. It’s a real bargain.” 

Richie makes a small farting noise, but then he smiles, small and pleased. 

“Thanks, Stan. I love you lots.” 

“I love you too, you cretin.” Stan swipes Richie’s coffee away from him without warning and takes off towards the trash. “You’re done with this, just so we’re clear. No more for you.” 

“I paid for that, asswipe!” 

“And I’ll pay for a non-caffeinated drink of your choice as compensation, okay? Just _stop drinking coffee, Richie.”_

The whole interaction ends with Richie losing his beloved heart-attack-in-a-cup Goblet of Fire, gaining a similarly beloved heaven-in-a-cup ration of some fancy juice thing called Very Berry Hibiscus Lemonade, and Stan escorting him back to the basement level of the library. Richie’s nerves melt away as they descend and his friends come into view, obviously having already gotten over the incident; it also doesn’t hurt that every time someone glances up at Richie, Stan steps closer and closer until eventually he has a hand firmly pressed between Richie’s shoulders, acting as a guide and a support pillar all in one. One girl and her friend openly start to giggle when they see Richie reappear, but all Stan has to do is take a pointed sip of his fancy juice thing called Very Berry Hibiscus Lemonade and make very intense eye contact and they look away again, expressions fearful. 

When they get to the table, it’s like nothing happened in the first place. Bev is staring intently at her laptop and bopping to whatever music she’s listening to; Ben and Mike are plugging away at their assignments, looking way more excited about it than any college sophomore has the right to be; and Richie’s textbook, laptop, and headphones are exactly where he left them, waiting to be picked up again. 

He gets settled in his seat, already feeling the humiliation drifting away from being with his friends again and enjoying a new drink. 

Bev notices, too, when she takes an earbud out and says: “I see you’ve been placated.” 

“Yeah, turns out all I needed was something in my mouth to shut me up. Who knew?” 

“That lasted long,” Stan gripes, but when Richie looks at him, he’s smiling. “Dumbass was drinking coffee when I went to fetch him so I had to fix that up too before we came back.” 

“Good thinking,” Mike says, and gives Stan an unreciprocated high-five without looking up from his textbook. It lands somewhere between his wrist and the middle of the back of his hand. “You’re my hero.” 

Ben giggles, typing something into his laptop. “I kind of like it when Richie loses his mind in a public area. It keeps things interesting.” 

“Haystack--feel free to shut the fuck up at any point, dude.” 

Bev makes a chopping motion between them. “Hey, knock it off, Ruffnut and Tuffnut. You’re lucky we didn’t get kicked out when Richie lost his mind over Kaspbrak. They definitely won’t let something slide again.” 

“Sorry, Your Highness,” Ben says, but it’s only about 5% sarcastic and 95% adoring. “It won’t happen again.” 

“Good.” 

Richie salutes her. “Sorry, Queen Bev. We’ll behave.” 

When Bev grins at them, and then goes back to doing her work, Richie slides his phone out of his pocket. He opens up his and Ben’s separate text thread and types out: **_look up ruffnut_ **

Richie watches Ben pull his phone out of the front pouch of his hoodie, read Richie’s text, and then silently say _“Ruffnut?”_ to himself. He looks up as per requested, and when their eyes meet, Ben mouths: “You’re Ruffnut, brah!” 

Richie just gives him the finger and Ben buries his face into the front of his hoodie to hide his giggling. Bev hears it anyway, and chops at both of them again. They wordlessly agree to let it go and get back to work, but not before Richie makes a _We aren’t done here_ gesture and Ben makes a gesture back that vaguely resembles the two of them getting into a tussle outside and Ben absolutely obliterating Richie. 

He reluctantly turns back to his essay, opening up his textbook to the correct pages and rebooting Google Docs. Richie’s head is as empty of inspiration as it was when they got there, and now he has the added stress of Eddie in platform boots and slicked-back hair rocketing around in there as well, so it’s not looking promising in terms of productivity. In the end, he gives up on the essay all together and finds a bootleg copy of _The Outsiders_ to watch. He keeps his helpless, gay weeping to a minimum, drinks his goddamn Very Berry Hibiscus Lemonade, and thinks about Eddie kicking a Soc’s ass in Patrick Swayze’s outfit all while managing to remain on his best behavior. 

Except for the part where Rob Lowe walks out of the shower with only a towel on, which results in Stan kicking him sharply in the ankle, but it can’t be helped. 

**~.~.~**

The next night at dinner, they’re clustered in their regular corner of the dining hall when Bev asks: “Hey Rich, want to come with me after we’re done here?” 

“Where are we going?” he replies, which means iwillfollowyouintothedark.mp3 by default. 

“Aw, _Bev,”_ Eddie whines, and she shushes him before saying: “To one of the dark rooms.” 

Richie looks between them for a good three seconds, monumentally confused by both reactions, and continues to chew on his pizza. When neither offers up an explanation further than boo-hooing at each other, he taps his foot against Eddie’s under the table. 

“What’s the scoop, cutie?” 

Eddie blanches at the name. “I’ll scoop _you_ into the fucking trash if you call me that again.” 

“Too late,” Richie tells him, licking some sauce off of his thumb. Eddie stares at it like he’d like to power-blast Richie with a garden hose full of Lysol. “Why are you pouting?” 

“I don’t pout.” 

“Fine. Why are you bitching?” 

Mike laughs. “Richie, use your noggin. Why would Bev want you to go with her to a dark room? And why would Eddie be mad about it?” 

He does as he’s told and turns his brain back on. He stares at Eddie the entire time that he thinks it over, humming and squinting, until Eddie flicks the edge of his glasses and demands: “Well? Anything clicking yet, Squidward?” 

Richie gasps dramatically and turns to Bev. “Wow! Really?” 

“Yeah, babe. I’m inviting you to watch the magic happen.” 

“Count me the fuck in! No way I’d give up a chance like this.” 

Eddie flicks his glasses again. “Don’t make a big deal of it.” 

Richie, unfortunately, has a reverse _That’s So Raven_ moment back to the library. “Whatever do you mean, Edward?” 

“Maybe this time you could, like, refrain from screaming? In public?” Eddie’s hand is still hovering near his face, and he drops it down until it’s gently curled over Richie’s shoulder and a little bit around his neck. Richie thinks that this request to not scream in public is going to be quickly disregarded if Eddie doesn’t stop being so fucking cute. “Over Bev’s photos of me?” 

Last night, after Eddie and Bill had finally gotten out of class and met up with the rest of them, they demanded that the full story behind Richie’s meltdown be told. Richie had to suffer the entire bus ride they took downtown to go out for dinner, simultaneously cringing and loudly defending his honor. Luckily, Eddie seemed more amused than horrified by the quote Richie blurted out on behalf of his latest photoshoot, but the whole situation still made Richie feel itchy and exposed. Eddie, in a rare moment of mercy, bought his bullshit excuse of “I just have extremely beautiful, attractive friends that I can’t help but be in love with at all times.” 

“I didn’t mean to! I promise that it won’t happen again.” 

Eddie just blinks at him. To his left, Stan is trying to hide a very disbelieving face, and to Stan’s left, Bill is not even attempting to hide his. They have a point. 

“You have a point.” 

Bev, who is as much Richie’s savior as she is his demise, pipes up again. “I’ll make sure that he keeps it to himself this time.” 

Eddie has another stare-down with her, where they continue to wordlessly communicate through the freaky mindmeld thing they established the Very Moment they met. Richie watches them move their faces and jerk their chins around, before Eddie surrenders. 

“I’ll allow it.” he says, stabbing at his salad. “But if I hear any comments about Alex Turner when you come back to the room tonight, you’re bunking up with Bowers and Hockstetter.” 

Richie nods calmly just as his frontal lobe starts to go haywire with this new comparison image. He hadn’t even thought about Alex Turner when looking at the photo Bev showed him, but now that Eddie’s said it—

“I’m going to go to the bathroom for a second,” he announces, and slides out of the booth without another word. 

Richie hears Ben ask: “What’d you do?” and Eddie reply hotly: “All I said was something about Alex Turner!” Bill groans in response, and Mike says: “Jeez, nice going. Now he’s going to scream in public again. Why can’t we win with you, Kaspbrak?” 

After Richie spends ten minutes in the bathroom doing breathing exercises and screaming into his hands, he goes back to the table and finishes his food. He pointedly ignores all of the knowing stares from his friends and the cute, confused staring from Eddie and loudly asks Mike how his essay on volcanoes is turning out. Everyone decides to do Richie a solid for once in his natural born life and let it go. 

They split up after that. Mike and Bill head back to their room to begin what will probably become a night-long _Mario Kart_ marathon; Stan heads off towards Gilly Hall to his weekly knitting club, which doubles as an accidental book club; Ben and Eddie head off the library, where Ben has a shift he’s covering and Eddie has a study group to meet up with for Chemistry. 

As he and Beverly are getting ready to go to her reserved dark room, Richie catches Eddie by one of his backpack straps. 

“Hey, Frye.” 

“What?” he asks, looking like he’s contemplating biting Richie’s hand. 

“What time does your group get done with? 8 or 9?” 

“It’s 8 tonight.” 

“Want me to come pick you up? So you don’t have to walk all the back here in the dark?” 

Immediately, Eddie softens. The smile he gives Richie roots him to the sidewalk, and also makes him want to back Eddie up against the nearest wall. 

“No, it’s okay. One of the girls in my group lives on the first floor of our building, so I can walk back with her. Have fun with Bev.” 

Richie smiles back, completely smitten. “Sounds good, Eds. Just let me know if you change your mind.” 

“I will.” Eddie gives the hand holding onto his backpack a gentle, warm squeeze, and then steps away. “Bye, Chee. See you later.” 

“See you later,” Richie echoes, and watches as Eddie and Ben walk away together, heart aching. 

When he’s finally able to tear his eyes away from them, he finds Beverly at his side, smiling to herself. She’s also watching the other two as they get farther and farther away from them, no doubt thinking about the kiss Ben snuck when he thought Richie and Eddie weren’t looking. She looks serene, completely and utterly in love, and Richie feels jealousy yawn open in his gut like a black hole. 

“C’mon, sweets,” Richie says, slinging an arm around her shoulders. “Let’s get this show on the road. I’m ready to get hurt again.” 

“I really don’t think you are, but it has to be done.” 

She leads them towards Caldwell, the building that every single art student haunts like they live there. Bev actually does live there; she was one of the lucky students who was able to snag a single on the third floor, above all of the classrooms and studios, but she spends more time at Ben and Stan’s or Mike and Bill’s than her own room most nights. It’s not uncommon for Bev to crash in Ben’s room or on Mike’s trusty futon, and has even spent a few nights crammed into Richie’s tiny twin just because she didn’t want to go back to her room and be by herself. Bev really only uses her room as a place for her and Richie to smoke and to store her projects in. 

There’s plenty of students still milling around when they arrive. Night students coming in for their classes, a small group of people sketching and talking on the ground near the windows, an open classroom where the Wednesday night pottery club meets and works on new pieces together. Richie’s been in here a few times for classes, and it always feels like he comes a little more alive when he walks through the doors of Caldwell, like he fits into skin better. Bev lights up whenever she enters, and waves at just about everyone on their way down to the dark rooms, even stopping to poke her head into the pottery club’s room to yell a quick hello. 

When they get to their designated dark room, Richie thinks to ask: 

“So, why the hell are you developing these photos? You don’t usually have to do that, do you?” 

“Nah,” Bev says, grabbing a camera out of her backpack. “Professor Lowe decided that for this project, he wanted us to have the experience of developing film instead of just uploading everything digitally. I, personally, would rather have the experience of hitting him in the head with a shovel, and yet.” 

“How long is it going to take to develop everything?” 

She sighs deeply, which is enough of an answer. “Probably a few hours. I took all of my Visual Thinking photos on my regular camera, so we don’t have to worry about those ones, but I still had to meet a handful of requirements for Photo I. I kind of forgot how many I took on here and I really don’t know if they came out or not. I guess we’re about to see.”

Richie will probably never say anything to the others, because he can comfortably have one-on-one time with any of them, but he often feels the most comfortable hanging out with Bev while she’s doing something. Their other friends are into hobbies that require little to no talking and/or movement, and Richie’s not exactly prone to being quiet or sitting still. He often feels like he’s intruding on their personal time or makes their hobbies less enjoyable. But with Bev, he never feels like he’s bugging her. They talk freely while she cracks her camera open and begins the tedious process of developing all of her film. She easily switches between talking about how developing film works, some podcast Richie got them addicted to, and the fact that she saw some douchebag wipe out on his skateboard earlier that day. 

He’s more focused on watching the film develop than anything, which surprises him. He appreciates the aesthetic and skill that photography requires, but he’s never been into it like he’s into film and cinematography, which Bev thinks is hilarious. It’s a conversation they’ve had many times. 

_“Sometimes it’s hard for me to understand the full story with just a picture,”_ is what Richie usually says, to which Bev always replies: _“A lot of the time, one picture’s all you need.”_

Maybe this time it’s different because he gets to watch the process of the actual film developing, which is extremely fascinating to him. Or maybe it’s because he knows that after it’s all done, she’ll have oodles and oodles of pictures of Eddie dressed like Alex Turner. 

The first one she’s working on looks similar to the one that she showed him in the library: Bev looking up at Eddie from below, camera angled to show the perfect line of his throat and the cutting look in his eyes. But this one is right in front of him, instead of to the side, so that Eddie is looking down his nose at the camera. He’s leaning up against a chain link fence that Richie guesses belongs to the school’s baseball diamond, sans baseball players or any part of the diamond itself. He feels winded looking at just the blurry outlines of the photo, early in its stages of development. 

“So how did you get him to pose for these ones?” 

“What’cha mean?” 

Richie’s hovering so close Bev that she probably feels him shrug. “You know. You said that he was a natural at posing for the Banana Republic photos, and I’m sure it didn’t take a lot of coaxing to get the Cameron ones to come out well. He’s naturally very cute and sweet when he’s not acting rabid. How’d these ones go?” 

“Pretty much the same. He was skeptical about the clothes, as I’m sure you guessed already, since he’s never really ventured into the world of chains and eyeliner. But once I convinced him that the ensemble really suited him, and that he already looked the part, it all came easy after that. Told him to give me his best Edward Cullen glare, and the rest is history. It might have helped that I played some Arctic Monkeys during the shoot.” 

Richie delicately picks up one of her errant strips of film and holds it to the bloody red lights in the dark room. He can’t see anything but the pose changes, but what he can see makes his knees knock together: Eddie on his back, Eddie’s fingers in his mouth, a close-up shot of nothing but his eyes. These photos might genuinely send Richie into an early grave once he gets a good look at them. 

“Alex Turner actually inspired this look,” she continues, walking them over to the first of the developer trays. “Theme for Visual was to construct a look based on the mood of a song, so I chose ‘R U Mine?’ since Eddie hasn’t done anything dark yet and I’ve been dying to try my hand at it.” 

“Well, you didn’t suck.” 

“Thanks, man.” 

“Kidding,” Richie laughs, kissing her cheek. “These are incredible. Some of your best work to date.” 

“Yeah? I honestly wasn’t too sure how these would turn out, between the outfit and the camera for Photo I.” 

“Bev, you’re like King Midas. Everything you touch turns to gold.” 

“You’re embarrassing,” she tells him, but when she sets the developer tray down, she gives him a kiss back. “I love you dearly.” 

It takes a few more minutes of Bev sloshing the photo around in the other two trays for it to finish developing. When she picks up the completed photo with a pair of tongs, Richie’s breath catches. All of the pictures for Photo I are supposed to be in black and white, and there’s something about the lack of color that makes the photo look even more vivid. Richie thinks it might be because the pop of the red carnations is gone, and the real star of the show is able to take its rightful place: Eddie’s starry, piercing eyes. 

“Beautiful,” Richie says faintly, like he’s not sure if meant to say it out loud. 

He’s a little surprised that Bev doesn’t tease him about the reverence in his voice. Instead, she takes a good, long look at the photo and agrees. 

“He’s very beautiful. I can’t believe I talked him into doing this, Richie. He’s fucking stunning. I have the best model in both classes.” 

“Without a goddamn doubt, sugar.” 

The photos only get more beautiful the farther they get into it. Richie easily loses track of time while watching Bev work her way through each of the photos, and the meticulous procedure of developing them. They talk quietly as each image of Eddie goes from fuzzy to so stark that it makes Richie lightheaded. Each one is better than the last; Eddie completely pressed up against the chain link fence, eyes closed and mouth slightly parted, Eddie sprawled out on the pavement, one arm thrown over his face, Eddie with his fingers pressed to his lips in a very messy, uncoordinated way that he would usually never put up with. There’s even one picture where Bev inserted herself--Eddie’s sitting on the grass in front of the fence, knees bent and legs spread, and Bev’s legs are thrown over his. In it, Eddie is giving the camera a smirk, eyes half-lidded, and his hands have a tight, possessive grip on Bev’s jean-clad thighs. Richie usually thinks of Eddie’s hands as small and practical, doctor’s hands, but the photo makes his hands look way bigger than they actually are, and sinfully strong. 

“I think...” Richie tells her, after looking at the photo for an extended period of time. “That I might need to sit down.” 

She laughs loudly, hanging the picture up next to the others to dry. “Whatever you gotta do, _Riverdale.”_

“I resent that.” 

He ends up being in the dark room with Bev long enough that, eventually, her phone dings with the reminder to take her night meds. 

“Damn, it’s already 10?” Richie asks, glancing at his own watch. “I should probably get going, Bev. I have some Technical Writing shit that I definitely didn’t do at all this week and definitely is due tomorrow.” 

“Word,” Bev nods, going to grab her meds out of her backpack. Richie is busy with getting his own backpack on when she announces: “Oh, hey, I forgot that I have something for you.” 

“Aw, honey, you’re too good to me,” Richie cooes, but holds his hands out obediently when Bev motions for him to. She produces a large manilla envelope, the kind used to store paperwork in. “What’s this?” 

“Open it, dummy. That’s what you do with presents.” 

Richie mimics her under his breath and carefully opens the flap on top. Inside is a single sheet of paper and it gives away absolutely nothing. 

“Wow, you shouldn’t have, Marsh.” 

“Just pull it out, smartass.” 

Richie grins at her. “Well, if you insist. That’s not a request I frequently rece--” 

The taunt dies a very painful death on his tongue as soon as he touches the edge of the paper. It’s actually photo paper, much like the kind Bev has been working with all night, and when he sees the edges of a black and white photograph slowly emerging from the envelope, Richie swears he has an out-of-body experience.

“Is this--” 

“Guess you’ll just have to see for yourself!” 

Swallowing, Richie gently extracts the photo from the envelope like he’s performing surgery. It turns out to be a member of Bev’s “R U Mine?” collection; in this photo, Eddie is laughing deeply, tongue caught between his teeth, and he’s also lovingly flipping Bev off through the camera. His eyes are bright and beautiful and his body language is back to its usual loose, trusting state, and Richie is so fucking in love with him that he could scream. 

“You-- _Bev--”_

“I did it last night,” she says, grinning proudly. “My test run, if you will. Thought you’d like it since I can’t include it in my final project.” 

Richie carefully puts the photo back into the envelope and then he pounces on her. He scoops Bev into his arms and lifts her off of the floor, smothering her face with kisses. 

“I love you so much, you gorgeous human being. You are the _light_ of my fucking _life,_ Beverly Marsh.” 

“I know,” she giggles, letting him kiss her cheeks over and over again. When he sets her down, Bev ruffles his hair fondly. “And you’re mine. Which is why I gifted you with the greatest treasure known to mankind.” 

Richie says: “Eddie in platform boots,” and Bev agrees: “Eddie in platform boots.” 

“Thank you,” he tells her seriously, holding the photo to his chest like it’s a relic from the Holy Roman Empire. “You just made these past twenty years of my life worth it.” 

“You’re welcome, dingus. See you tomorrow.” 

“Goodbye, fire of my loins!” he replies, and gives her one last kiss on the cheek before heading out of the dark room for the first time in almost three hours. 

**_~.~.~_ **

When he gets back to their room, Richie throws open the door and yells: _“Greaser!”_ at the top of his lungs. Eddie, who’s perched in his desk chair, jumps a mile high and almost sends his laptop flying. 

“Jesus fucking shit, Richie!” he snaps, hand fluttering to his chest. “What the fuck was that for?” 

“Just making sure that you have a pulse in here still! That’s an important thing to have as an aspiring nurse.” 

“No shit, Grissom.” Eddie’s scowl lessens at his dumb joke, but it doesn’t stop him from giving Richie the bird. “Why the fuck did you need to be so loud?” 

Richie grins wildly at him, holding up the manilla folder Bev gifted him with. “It’s a special occasion, Dr. K! And you’re actually celebrating right now!” 

Eddie takes the hand that’s flipping Richie off and holds it out in a very annoyed _What the hell are you talking about?_ gesture. Richie opens the envelope again and extracts Eddie’s photo from inside, holding it up for him to see. 

And because he wants Eddie to destroy his bloodline, Richie sings a very off-key: _“Look at this photograph!”_

“Noooooo,” Eddie wails, slamming his head into the back of his desk chair. “I’m going to strangle Bev! Why did she think it was a good idea to give that to you?” 

“Are you kidding? I’m the safest person to give this to. I would take a bullet before I let someone even _breathe_ on this photograph.” 

Eddie raises his head up again, looking very forlorn. “Richard.” 

“This is more sacred, more _iconic_ than the Mona Lisa herself. I’m going to install laser detection to keep someone from stealing this and selling it for millions. It will have armed security at all times. You have my word.” 

At this, he finally sees Eddie’s mouth twitch like he’s trying not to smile. “Shut up, no you’re not. If you put that on the wall, I’m moving out.” 

Richie’s across the room in seconds, one hand curling around Eddie’s back and the other one pushing the photo right up to his nose. 

“Eddie Spaghetti, stop insulting the art like that! This is a goddamn masterpiece! You should be honored to be in close proximity of such finery. Most people go their whole lives without getting anywhere near the most extraordinary pieces of art in the world!” 

“I look like an idiot,” Eddie says plainly, flicking it. “And it’s not even one where I’m actually posing, so I don’t think it counts.” 

“Ah, but you see--the finest pieces of art are the ones that happen by accident, when you’re not trying to make them the finest pieces of art, you know?” 

That finally gets Eddie to laugh. 

“Okay, Chef Gusteau, thank you for that deep and inspiring piece of advice.” He taps the corner of the picture, and moves his head until their cheeks are lightly brushing. “Do you really think it looks good? Good enough for Bev’s project?” 

“My dear Eds, this is good enough to be on display at the Louvre.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Eddie laughs again, soft and sweet. This time, when he touches the photograph, it’s careful. “Thanks, Rich. You always make me feel better about this whole modeling nonsense.” 

Richie turns to him, until their foreheads are gently pressed together, and Eddie is the only thing that he can see. He knows, in the part of his brain that’s still functioning, that he should be putting some space between them right about now. That his feelings for Eddie are probably all over his face, since Richie is shit at concealing _everything,_ and Eddie’s going to notice any second and tell him to get the fuck out. Instead of backing off, Richie pushes closer, breathing in the subtle strawberry of Eddie’s shampoo and feeling the warm expanse of his shoulders underneath his pajama shirt.

“It’s not a bit, dude,” he swears, not even thinking about the words coming out of his mouth before he says them. “You were born to be on film.” 

He audibly hears Eddie’s breath catch. His eyes are huge and gorgeous, staring up at Richie like he can’t believe the words he’s saying, either. 

“I would know,” Richie continues, because he’s an absolute shit idiot fucking fool. “I’m a film expert. I recognize a starlet when I see one.” 

Eddie stares and stares at him, and then abruptly turns away, snorting loudly. “‘A starlet.’ Yeah fucking right.” 

Richie is both extremely relieved and extremely gutted that this shatters their careful bubble. He takes it as the out that he probably needs and slides away from Eddie, over towards his side of the room. While he digs through one of the drawers in his desk, looking for the pack of sticky tack he knows he has, he continues to lightly harass Eddie. 

“I mean it. You’re a regular fucking season one Spencer Reid with those doe eyes of yours. You’d have to fight producers off with a stick and that mouth of yours.” 

“Spencer Reid?” Eddie asks, sounding even more like he’s in disbelief. 

Richie knows that it’s because Eddie doesn’t think he could ever be as attractive or successful as Matthew Grey Gubler, but he plays dumb. 

“I’m sorry, I forgot that we’re focusing on the fact that you’re a Greaser now. I meant to say that you’re a regular fucking C. Thomas Howell, circa 1983.” 

“Honestly, I don’t remember how Bev even talked me into dressing up like that. If she wanted to try out a Greaser look, she should have made you model for her.” 

“I don’t know if I should be taking that as a compliment or not,” Richie laughs, secretly delighted. He finally finds his sticky tack and fishes it out of the drawer, trying to decide where on his wall he should stick Eddie’s photo. “I’m gonna go with yes.” 

“I was trying to be nice to you for once. And you already dress like a Greaser, anyway--it wouldn’t have been as strange to see you wearing the clothes she put me in.” 

“Oh, I see what you’re saying here.” Richie chooses to stick the photo in between a drawing Bill did of his D&D character and his beloved movie poster for _Weird Science_. “You’re saying that she should have dressed you up like a Soc.” 

Eddie lets out a loud, dramatic sigh, but when Richie turns to him again, he’s grinning. “Yeah, _that’s_ what I’m saying here. I’m a Soc and should be treated as such.” 

“Socs are usually cute and violent, so I’d say you’re doing a pretty good job.” 

“Fuck off,” Eddie says petulantly, looking away. “I’m not cute.” 

“You’re adorable,” Richie insists, and then also looks away before he says anything else. “Do you like it? I’ll be installing the lasers tomorrow, so the placement’s final unless I hear an objection.” 

“I have, like, _so_ many objections.” There’s a small pause, where Richie can feel Eddie looking over the photograph, and then he finishes with: “Do you really like it?” 

The uncertainty in his words brings back the honesty in Richie’s. “Eds, I would’ve hung up all the photos Bev is developing for her project if she let me.” 

“God, thank fuck she actually needs them. I would not want to come home to my face all over the walls.” When Richie turns to him again, Eddie’s face is open and pleased. His voice is the same when he tells Richie: “This is bullshit. I have so much Calc homework and all I want to do is watch _The Outsiders_ now. You’re a monster.” 

“A monster with a torrented copy of _The Outsiders_ on his laptop.” 

“Your laptop is going to mutate and disappear into an alternate universe one of these days with all the illegal shit you have downloaded onto it.” Eddie glances down at his Calc textbook, lips pursed cutely; he stares at it for a few heartbeats before slamming it shut, defeated. “I’ll go make the popcorn.” 

“I’ll get the movie up before my laptop Mothmans us and jumps timelines.” 

“Good idea.” Eddie reaches down and opens the bottom drawer of his desk, the one that he always has crammed full of snacks. It’s the characteristic that makes him a raccoon and Richie a possum. “I’d be pretty pissed if I didn’t get to see Patrick Swayze in all of his Greaser glory.” 

Richie goes to his wardrobe to grab his pajamas. “I think it’s great that you, as a Soc, are open to pushing boundaries and dating people outside of your circle. It’s very inspiring.” 

“Well, you know--” Eddie slides by him to head to the communal kitchen, but pauses, hand on the door. The look he’s giving Richie might be considered flirty if Richie closed one eye and then the other and also had a mild concussion. “Greasers have a lot to offer. Even though they’re all idiots, they’re still pretty funny. And pretty hot.” 

Eddie’s gone before Richie can think of what the hell to say to _that._ And it’s for the best, because as soon as the door clicks shut, Richie is shouting: _“What the fuck?”_ at a volume that’s extremely uncalled for given the hour. Bowers or Hockstetter bangs their fist on the wall, and Richie shouts again. _“Leave me alone, I’m gay!”_

He doesn’t wait for another bang to come. Instead, he scampers into his and Eddie’s bathroom to change and hopefully collect his goddamn marbles before the demon in question comes back. In the wall-to-wall mirror, Richie can see just how wide and startled his eyes look, and he wants to put his fist through it. 

He struggles out of his clothes and into his pajamas, cussing impressively. He even goes as far as to splash some cold water onto his face, hoping that the sting of it will magically will away these big, gross feelings he has for his best friend, or at least make them Mothman and jump timelines. Shockingly, they do not, in fact, disappear. 

“I hate you,” Richie says to himself in the mirror. “You should have fallen in love with Ben. It wouldn’t have sucked so much to fall in love with him and be let down. I bet he’d still kiss you sometimes, if Bev said it was okay.”

The fan in their bathroom is loud and splutters a lot, so Richie misses it when Eddie comes back. He does catch it when Eddie calls through the door: 

“Hey, wrap up whatever conversation you’re having with yourself in there. We got Socs to stab.” 

“I’ll have you know that I’m riveting!” Richie calls back. “Be out in a sec, Cherry!” 

“Don’t fucking call me that!” 

“Too late!” Richie gives himself another splash, and then points a finger at the mirror. “Get your shit together, Tozier. You’ve kept it to yourself for this long. Don’t let Rob Lowe’s beautiful hair lull you into a false sense of security.” 

He turns to exit the bathroom, then stops to send one more prayer out. 

“Rob Lowe’s beautiful hair, if you’re out there, please help me to keep from telling Eddie that I’m hopelessly in love with him tonight. Amen, or whatever.” 

And then he steps back into their room to face the music, ready or fucking not. 

(Definitely _not_ ready is the ultimate consensus, since Eddie lays on him again and cries when the Curtis brothers are reunited at the hospital, Rob Lowe’s beautiful hair fucking help him.) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi i love writing bevchie brotp it's so fun and i love them w my whole chest!!! but lmao i hope that was okay!! like i said, i had a ton of trouble with writing this one so hopefully it was a decent read and the upcoming chapters will be much better!!! thank you all for your continuous comments/kudos/tumblr messages about this fic!!!! your support means the world to me!!!! and special thanks to blue heart anon for being my knight in shining armor ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
> 
> in case you'd ever like to communicate with me, my tumblr is also [@bodhirookes!!](http://bodhirookes.tumblr.com) feel free to drop in and take a look around, leave an ask if you'd like, talk to me about how the restaurant scene is the best it scene because eddie is so fucking violent and hilarious, etc etc lovelies ♡♡♡♡


	4. chameleon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hi i'm very gay and i'd like a few dollars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone, we are back with chapter 4!!!! i had soooo much fun writing this one and am very excited to share it all with you hehe!! definitely my favorite chapter so far because of a little scene towards the middle, which i will scream about more in the end notes so i don't give anything away!! thank you for sticking around and reading my fic :")) 
> 
> the mood of this chapter is definitely [this text post](https://bodhirookes.tumblr.com/post/186976311511/adhdlouis-listen-man-pulls-heart-shaped) if anyone was curious fdsfdhha
> 
> also the part at the beginning where i make fun of the band camino and 21p is all in good humor, i listen to both groups still and it's meant to be a joke so fjsjdjfsjddjsjjd pls don't arrest me i literally have been listening to guns for hands every single day for like 3 weeks now it's a genuine problem 
> 
> and i quickly wanted to state bc idk if i did before but every loser is gay!!! in this fic i headcanon eddie, richie, and mike as gay, stan, bill, and ben as bi, and bev as pan. they are aLL GAY YOUR HONOR.
> 
> i hope yall enjoy reading as much as i enjoyed writing!!!!! any mistakes are my own!! and as always, this one goes out to blue heart anon ♡♡♡

Bev takes the whole ordeal to the next level one night while they’re eating dinner. Richie really wishes she would stop catastrophically changing his life while they’re in public, and more specifically, the dining hall. He would pay big money to stop having a fight-or-flight response every single time they’re serving chicken quesadillas. 

He’s distressed because they’re talking about Eddie’s modeling again, and Richie has barely recovered from the ‘R U Mine?’ photos. He’s nowhere near ready for whatever this next photoshoot is going to entail. Luckily, he wasn’t the one to bring the photos up, so he’s able to chill in the background and panic until drawn into the conversation against his will. Mike had actually been the one to mention them this time, remembering that today was show-off day in Visual Thinking, and asked how it went. Apparently, it went swimmingly, except for one tiny hitch: 

“Wait, wait,” Bill says, pointing his fork at Bev across the table. “Y-you’re telling me that one of your hipster classmates doesn’t know who the hell Alex Turner is? Or even just the Arctic Monkeys? How is that p-possible?” 

“I honestly don’t know. I thought it was a rite of hipster passage to have an aggressive Arctic Monkeys phase.” 

Mike also appears to be suspicious. “Do you know what kind of music he does like, then? Since he made such a show about not recognizing ‘R U Mine?’ while it was playing during your presentation?” 

Bev makes a face like she just bit into a lemon. “He likes The Band Camino.” 

“No!” Mike gasps, looking genuinely upset. “Please say it isn’t so.” 

“It’s true,” Bev affirms, hand pressed to her forehead. “He also likes…  _ Twenty One Pilots.”  _

Bill makes to get up from the table at this admission, shaking his head like there is no greater betrayal than someone being a Twenty One Pilots fan. Which-- 

Stan laughs and pulls him back down. “Stop. You used to like Twenty One Pilots, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Who,  _ me?” _ Bill asks, disgusted. 

“All of you, dork.” 

Bill, Mike, and Bev all look at each other with varying degrees of disbelief. And then, after a moment of silence, they yell:  _ “I’m fairly local!” _ in perfect unison and start laughing their asses off. 

Richie, who also used to partake in some good Twenty One Pilots therapy, says to the group at large: “If there is a single person at this table who wasn’t unhealthily obsessed with them at one point, I’ll kindly walk the plank.” 

“You better start walking then,” Stan sniffs. “Because I was part of no such trend.” 

Richie meets Bill’s eyes across the table and they send each other matching grins. Bill curls an arm around Stan’s shoulders and says to him, “You know, l-lying doesn’t look good on you, babe,” and Richie says to him, “Yeah, if you’re going to lie, you better make sure you’ve cleaned up all of the evidence.” 

Stan doesn’t budge. “What are you talking about?” 

Richie goes for the secret weapon. Without answering the question, he gets Spotify pulled up and scrolls through it until he’s on Stan’s public profile, and consequently, looking at his public playlists. There’s one that he sees Stan listening to sometimes, titled a very to-the-point: ‘My Favorite Albums From High School’ that contains both  _ Vessel _ and  _ Blurryface _ on it. He wordlessly flips his phone around until everyone at the table can see that both albums are on a playlist created by Stanley Uris himself, and they are favorites of his, apparently, from the prime emo time. 

Stan narrows his eyes at Richie playfully, but doesn’t try to defend himself. “All right. You win this round, Snuffleupagus.” 

“I know how much it pains you to say that to me, so I’m going to take my victory with good grace.” 

Bill snorts. “Now  _ that _ is a lie.” 

After Richie and Bill are done pretending to fight each other, Ben asks Bev: “Did he have any other tragic music tastes?” 

Richie can’t help but interject with: “Like, for instance, New Kids On The Block?” 

Ben immediately picks up his plastic knife, like he’s going to throw it at Richie like a spear, and Bev gently pulls it back down to the table. He lets her, but it doesn’t stop him from saying: “New Kids On The Block are cool again, just so you know, Richie.” 

“Like Crocs?” 

“He  _ said,” _ Bev cuts in, trying to break up the argument before it’s even begun. “That the song Eddie would go best with, besides ‘R U Mine?’ is ‘Lonely Boy’ by The Black Keys, if that helps to redeem this dude at all.” 

Richie nods, holding up a rock on sign. “He’s pardoned.” 

“He couldn’t have picked ‘Howlin’ For You?’” Eddie whines, but looks kind of pleased to be compared to a Black Keys song. “‘Lonely Boy’ is a little too on the nose, don’t you think?” 

“‘Lonely Boy’ is their most streamed song.” Bill points out. 

“Also, you’re not lonely,” Ben tells him, smiling beautifully. “You have all of us!” 

Richie, who is a renowned idiot, and who is also apparently trying to blow all of his covers, cups Eddie’s cheek with a hand and simpers: “Me specifically, Eds, my dashing roomie.” 

“Stop calling me Eds,” Eddie says, pulling his face out of Richie’s hold. “I’m going to let Bowers fuck Hockstetter in your bed if you don’t knock it off.” 

“Oooooh, okay,” Mike drawls, voice going high with surprise. “Eddie is not an angel after all. Who knew?” 

“Me,” says everyone else at once, and Eddie preens just as much as he preened upon being compared to The Black Keys’ music. 

Mike continues with: “Well, I guess it all worked out then, huh? Your project did the best, as we knew it would, and you uncovered the mole in your class.” 

“For sure. Eddie, I mean it when I say that my class is going apeshit over your photos. They really can’t get enough. Everyone wants you to model for them.” 

Eddie stares at her for a long beat; he clearly still doesn’t see how incredible his posing is, and how incredibly Bev is able to capture the subtle shifts in his body and his expressions. Richie would throttle him if he wasn’t afraid of Eddie doing the same back to him and breaking his neck. 

“You’re joking.” 

Bev gives him a look, one that clearly echoes Richie’s current sentiments. “Eddie, you’ve got to be kidding me right now. Did you not see the ‘R U Mine?’ photos?” 

Eddie tilts his chin, trying to seem indifferent. “I saw them.” 

“Yeah, but did you _ see them?” _ she asks again. “You’re gorgeous, buddy.” 

He reddens immediately. “Me? It’s all about your photography skills here, Bev. It has nothing to do with me.” 

Bev looks to be speechless, so confounded by Eddie’s lack of self-awareness that words can’t even begin to cover her own confusion. Stan meets her eyes, and says: “Who’s gonna tell him?” 

“Tell me what?” 

Mike makes a big show of chewing his food, settling his silverware down, and then clasping his hands together. “Eddie, look, there’s no easy way to say this, but--” Eddie abruptly pales, shoulders bunching together under his hoodie (it actually might be Richie’s, now that he’s looking at it), but Mike just pushes through with: “--you are fucking beautiful. Bev’s incredible at taking photos for sure, but you have just as big a part in them as she does. Remember what she said before?” 

“No,” Eddie replies meekly, face all sorts of broken open and closed up tight. 

“It takes two to make a good photo.” 

When Eddie doesn’t say anything else, shoulders still bunched but eyes going soft with hope, Richie leans against him until he looks up. He smiles as softly as he can and tells him: 

“Listen to the lady and the lad, Eds, they’re talking some sense.” 

Bill nods. “Richie is also talking s-some sense for once.” 

Eddie’s quiet for a few more beats, and then he levels Bev with the same indifferent look he was trying for earlier. “My going rate is $50 a session, so they better pay up if they want a piece of this.” 

It breaks whatever tension was starting to harden at the table, and then they’re all laughing deeply, Eddie included. Richie curls an arm around his back and leans his cheek against the top of Eddie’s head. 

“Eddie, you are a rare gem in this volcano of a planet.” 

He wiggles his arm around Richie’s back, too, and says, “Yeah, I guess I am.” 

“Just wait until they see the photos we’re taking soon,” Bev gushes, a moony expression crossing her face. “I’m so excited to take them. You’re going to look adorable.” 

“Aw yeah, another cute concept?” Richie asks, pre-ecstatic. “A good palate cleanser after Alex Turner.” 

“Yeah, they’re going to be colorful and fun as fuck. Bright colors is the theme for Photo I since we just did black and white, and the theme for Visual Thinking is a concept or topic that is very dear and important to us. Wanna guess what it is?” 

“Colors…” Ben hums. “Actually matching your clothes? Unlike some unnamed subjects currently at the table.” 

“Yeah, those people are losers,” Richie agrees pointedly; today he’s wearing a mustard yellow jacket open over a red Cyndi Lauper t-shirt, and a pair of black jeans with baby blue shark socks. Mike had taken one look at him at lunch and said  _ What’s up, Superman?, _ and Richie had felt accomplished. “Who can’t match colors? It’s barbaric.” 

“You’re going to make Eddie look like a Care Bear,” Bill guesses, grinning madly. “Because they’re all super colorful. And you’re both full of love. And adorable.” 

“Good guess,” Bev says, chucking him under his chin. “But incorrect like always, Billy. Better luck next time.” 

“Is it the primary colors?” Stan asks, ever the pragmatic one. 

“Close! You’re super close, Stanny. Put it together with Bill’s and you’ll make some magic.” 

“They already do that often enough,” Mike says, frowning, just as the lightbulb goes off in Richie’s head and he shouts: “It’s gay, isn’t it?” 

“Ding ding ding!” Bev cheers. “The Price Is Right, bitch!” 

“Care Bears?” Stan asks Bill, smiling cutely. 

Bill shoves him lightly. “Shut up. You’re a Care Bear.” 

“If that was supposed to be an insult, you’re mistaken.” 

While Stan and Bill make faces at each other, Bev continues with explaining her newest projects. “Yeah, Professor Slate really wanted us to put more of ourselves into this project besides designing the outfits. She feels like the photos always turn out better when we’re trying to express ourselves and not just the prompt. So, obviously, given that myself and my model are extraordinarily queer, that was what I had to go with.” 

“Will she like it?” Mike asks. 

“Professor Slate is also extraordinarily queer, so my money’s on yes.” 

“Excellent.” 

“I’m gonna make them  _ super _ gay, too.” Bev waves her hands in front of her, like she’s looking up at an imaginary storyboard. “Lots of good, bright, solid rainbow colors, lots of glitter, lots of hearts. I’m also making Eddie wear lip gloss.” 

“Yippee,” Eddie says flatly, looking positively thrilled by the idea. “I can’t wait.” 

“Hush. You’ll love it.” She gives Eddie a knowing look, and then gives Richie one, for whatever fucking reason. Probably because he’s definitely thinking about Eddie in lip gloss and all of his organs are liquifying in his body. Bev looks at Richie a little longer than necessary, though, given the circumstances, and he’s about to demand to know what her deal is, when she proclaims: “Oh, I was going to ask you something!” 

Eddie groans, just as Richie asks: “Oh? Do tell. Last time brought on many good memories.” 

Stan’s eyebrows do a funny little wiggle. “I don’t care for whatever you’re insinuating.” 

“Gross, Stanley. I was just talking about seeing Eddie in platform boots.” 

“You’re obsessed with those fucking things,” Eddie tells him, like Richie is not already painfully aware of this fact. “Stop bringing them up.” 

“But they were  _ out of this world,  _ Eddie Spaghetti, especially on your egg-cellent pair of leggies.” 

He shoves a hand into Richie’s forehead. “And stop calling them leggies!” 

“It’s kind of completely different,” Bev explains. “And you’ll get to be more hands-on than breathing down my neck and asking what I’m doing every two seconds.” 

“Um, it was actually every three seconds so you can lose the attitude, Marsh.” 

She rolls her eyes, but her smile widens. “Do you want to hear about it or not, idiot?” 

“Yes please!” 

“So, Eddie and I discussed it ad nauseam, and we both think that it would be really cool if you could come to the photoshoot this time to help me out with the lighting and work your cinematography magic. I’ll have to focus on balancing out really bright colors and there’s some more complicated makeup that I’m worried about touching up in between shots, so your help is most welcomed and needed.” 

Richie is genuinely taken aback by the offer. Bev knows about his  _ slight _ obsession with Eddie being a model, and Eddie is aware of it because Richie makes sure he’s aware of it, but he never thought he’d get to see it happen in the actual moment. He never dared to dream about being so close to Eddie while he’s blooming into his own skin. 

“You agreed to this?” 

Eddie looks vaguely resigned. “Yeah, I did. Bev made a really good case and I couldn’t exactly turn her down.” 

“And what was the case?” 

When Richie looks over at Bev, she simply shrugs and says: “That you’re good at what you do. And I wouldn’t want anyone else helping us with the job.” 

Warmth floods his chest, and Richie knows that the smile spreading across his face is large and goofy, the kind that people have teased him about in the past, but he can’t find it within himself to care. He grins manically at Bev, and then at Eddie, feeling very in love with them both. 

“Aw, shucks. You guys really know how to make a fella’s day, don’tcha?” 

“I take it back,” Eddie says, but he’s starting to smile, too. “I don’t think I can handle you wreaking havoc on my photoshoot.” 

“Eds, don’t worry about it. You won’t even know I’m there.” 

Bev takes a loud, pointed intake of breath. “Yeah, about that--” 

“Beverly, I thought we talked about this!” 

“Hey, don’t be like that!” 

“Like what?” 

“Like you’re going to Five Finger Death Punch me. I have a method to obtain what I need, and that method might require some non-conventional tactics.” 

Richie is supremely confused by whatever’s going on. He points a hesitant finger at himself, and asks: “I’m a non-conventional tactic?” 

She looks between them, obviously weighing her options, before ultimately just going with the truth. “Look. This photoshoot needs to be fun and cute. I need you to laugh, Eddie! And no one makes you laugh like Richie does. He’s going to be working on the lighting for sure, but I also need him to make you giggle a little.” 

Eddie interjects again, crossing his arms over his chest. “Anything involving Richie trying to make me laugh is going to end in complete and utter chaos. I’m pretty sure that the dean would frown upon me committing a homicide in one of the studios. I can handle it myself, thank you very much.”

Bill leans around Stan and says to Eddie, looking pretty smug: “If I d-do recall correctly, the one and only time you’ve ever laughed to the point of t-tears was because of Richie.” 

“Oh, yeah!” Ben exclaims, pointing at Bill. “I think you’re right. What was it that he said?” 

Mike points at Bill, too. “You’re totally right. It was when he was reenacting that video of those two dudes yelling at each other over _The_ _Wizard of Oz_.” 

Richie chokes on his bite of food, remembering when he decided to start screaming the dialogue at Ben during game night once. Eddie had laughed so hard that he started sobbing and had to take a breather outside for fifteen minutes before he could even think about looking at Richie. Richie yells it again, right there in the dining hall: “The Wicked Witch of the East, bro!” and Eddie, despite his protests, starts to laugh just as much as he did that night. 

“Case and point,” Bev says to him. “There’s no one who can crack you open or up like Richie. He’s been employed to do the same during our photoshoot.” 

Eddie takes a deep, unsteady breath, obviously still in danger of splitting open at any given moment. “Okay, okay. I surrender.” 

“Good, that’s settled then. Rich, I need you to meet us at Caldwell tomorrow after your Technical Writing class. Studio B.” 

“No nap?” he jokes, giving Eddie a suggestive look. “Hmmm, I guess I can deal since I’ve been promised the sight of you in lip gloss.” 

Eddie jokingly scowls back. “You’re disgusting. Just for that, you’re not allowed to go anywhere besides behind the camera.” 

“Sugar, that’s the perfect spot.” 

Eddie turns to Bev. “Let’s bring Stan instead, please. We don’t need this fucker.” 

“No can do,” Bev tells him, unapologetic, and then Stan tells him: “I wouldn’t mess this opportunity up if you paid me.” 

“Opportunity for what?” Richie asks. 

Stan gives him a secretive smile. “Oh, nothing. I just want you to enjoy your cinematography debut, Richie.” 

Richie squints at him. “Uh huh. Thanks for your support, Stan.” 

“Absolutely,” Stan says, voice overly-sweet. “I can’t wait to see what you guys make together.” 

“A mistake, probably,” Eddie says, unaware of the tone of Stan’s voice. “But there’s no going back now.” 

Bev points her spoon at Eddie’s unconvinced face. “Ye have little faith, Eddie. I bet you $5 that you love whatever pictures we take tomorrow more than anything else we’ve done so far.” 

“I agree,” Richie says, hugging Eddie to his side again. “You get not one but  _ two _ geniuses tricking you out tomorrow. These pictures are going to disrupt the space time continuum, babycakes.” 

Eddie grimaces at Stan. “Don’t ever ask me for a favor again. Look at what you’ve done to me.” 

Stan shrugs. “Oh, well. I think I can live with that. You’ll be thanking me, anyway, so it doesn’t really matter.” 

“I highly doubt that.” 

Just to annoy him, Richie says: “I don’t doubt it for a second. How about you try suspending your disbelief for once, huh?” 

“Because I don’t want to,” Eddie gripes back, but then after a moment, goes soft again. “Okay. I guess I can try.” 

“That’s the spirit!” 

Bev makes the eyes-on-you gesture at Richie. “So, we’re clear, right? Tomorrow, right around 3:45 when you get out of Tech Writing. Caldwell, studio B. If you’re not there by 4, I’ll send the hounds.” 

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world!” Richie insists, and when Eddie smiles again, one of his far-and-few sweet, pleased smiles, Richie feels the warmth in his chest spread everywhere else. 

“I’m looking forward to it,” Eddie tells him, so that only he can hear, and Richie swoons.

**_~.~.~_ **

Richie arrives at Caldwell around 3:50, having hauled ass across the west side of campus to get there as soon as possible. He flies into the building and heads for the studios, waving at people he knows and greeting a few others; he even catches Bill on his way out of Life Drawing and stops long enough to kiss him on the cheek before continuing down the hall, Bill’s laugh echoing after him. 

When Richie gets to studio B, he throws the door open and announces: 

“I’m here, I’m queer, and ready to watch Bev take photos of my dear!” 

Bev and Eddie are off to the side of the room, away from the camera setup, studio lights, and powdery pink backdrop for the pictures. Eddie is perched in a director's chair, and Bev is standing in front of him, applying foundation to his face. 

“Hey,” Bev says, not looking away from Eddie. “Thanks for being on time.” 

“I would have cut class early if Professor Walker didn’t have the eyes of a fucking eagle.” 

Eddie snorts. “Also, your class only has twenty people in it, so. He definitely notices when you’re not there.” 

“Unfortunately.” Richie tosses his backpack into a corner and heads over to them. The way that Bev is standing in front of Eddie hides his upper body, so Richie doesn’t notice that Eddie is naked from the waist up until he’s right next to them. “Oh, is this going to be a sexy shoot? Bill’s been gunning for one of those.” 

“Shut up,” Eddie says, but it’s mild. 

“No, it’s not going to be sexy, so you and Bill can both calm down. This look just has a lot of glitter involved, and I didn’t want any to accidentally get on Eddie’s clothes where I didn’t want it.” 

When Bev turns away to grab something else, Eddie makes a pouty face at Richie, obviously not a fan of not wearing clothes. Richie’s about to make some smart remark, smirk already pulling up at the corner of his mouth, but then he stops. There are goosebumps all over Eddie’s arms and, underneath all of the sass and general disapproval he has for the makeup application process, he looks mighty uncomfortable. 

“You’re cold, aren’t you?” Richie says more than asks, feeling an irrational swell of protectiveness. 

Eddie looks away from him, shrugging. “Just a little. I’m fine, though. It’ll be done soon.” 

“She just started doing the foundation,” Richie argues. “You’re going to be here for a while.” 

“It’s okay. I can deal.” 

Richie laughs, exasperated, and decides to take matters into his own hands after remembering that arguing with Eddie never ends in a win. He unzips the jacket he has on and shrugs out of it, beckoning Eddie forward. 

“Here.” 

Eddie’s eyes widen, and then go unbearably soft. “Richie, it’s okay. You don’t need to give me your jacket.” 

Richie is undeterred, stepping closer to him. “Eds, I just flew across campus to get here. I promise that I’m not anywhere near as cold as you are right now.” 

“Bev’s going to get makeup over it.” 

“I get all kinds of shit on my clothes every fucking day. And I never thought I would say this, but glitter is one of the lesser evils in this case.” 

There’s another moment of hesitation, and then Eddie wiggles to the edge of his seat, smiling a little. “Okay.” 

“It’s not like you don’t already steal these from me every day,” he teases, reaching around behind Eddie to get his arms into the sleeves. “I’ve come to expect it.” 

Eddie doesn’t try to deny it, just pliantly sits and lets Richie slip the jacket over his shoulders. “They’re comfy.” 

“Maybe I should steal some of yours back.” 

“I’d like to see you try to fit into one of my hoodies. Usually I don’t condone the short jokes, but under these circumstances I have to agree with them.” 

“Fuck you. I’d  _ rock _ the cropped hoodie look.” 

When Eddie’s got his arms situated, Richie zips the jacket all the way up, effectively covering his bare skin. Eddie releases a small, blissful sigh and leans back in his chair, looking infinitely more comfortable and so cute that Richie could scream. 

“Thank you,” Eddie says with emotion. “I was trying to be brave, but as soon as you offered, I knew it was a lost cause.” 

“It’s because I’m your knight in shining armor.” 

Eddie snuggles into Richie’s jacket, looking for all intents and purposes like a cat, and then says, because he has no regard for Richie’s well-being: “It’s because you’re always nice and warm.” 

Bev chooses this moment to get back in between them, concealer wand at the ready. Richie thinks that this is an excellent choice all around, because he feels very much in danger of climbing into that tiny, flimsy director’s chair and kissing Eddie within an inch of his life. 

“I’m gonna go check out the camera,” he says, voice reedy. “Feel free to get whatever the fuck you need to on that jacket. Laundry day’s tomorrow, anyways.” 

“Wow,” Bev replies. “Congrats, dude, your first since the turn of the century.” 

Richie’s brain is operating at about 12%, so all he has the creativity to do is mimic Bev’s words as he strolls away. The other 88% is most definitely being taken up by the haunting image of Eddie tucked into his jacket and smiling at Richie like he’s the best thing since sliced bread. 

He dutifully checks out the camera where it’s resting on top of a tripod and the setup as promised, trying to refocus on the task at hand. Richie already knew that Bev’s camera was fantastic quality because of the photos of Eddie that it produced, but there’s nothing like looking at it in person. He flips through the settings to kill some time, nodding to himself and saying, “Good choice, Marshy,” under his breath. Eddie and Bev chatter away behind him, and Richie adds commentary when appropriate, but he puts most of his attention on getting the set ready for Bev. 

She definitely picked out the perfect backdrop for Eddie. Now that Richie’s looking at it through the camera, he can see that the pale pink fabric is actually covered in flecks of silver glitter, not enough to be obnoxious but enough to make the fabric glisten and twinkle in the camera’s lens. Richie is already a little dead inside from the thought of Eddie’s creamy skin complimenting the backdrop, coupled with his big doe eyes and his to-be glossy lips. 

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Richie says to himself, looking at the backdrop in dismay. “You should have run when you had the chance.” 

“What was that?” Bev asks, not having heard him. 

“I said that I’m a lucky bitch, and I’m glad I got this chance.” 

Bev grins at him over her shoulder, brush dipped into a blindingly colorful eyeshadow palette. Richie can’t see a bit of Eddie’s face over her shoulders, and he thanks Jesus Christ for this small mercy. 

“I’m so glad you agreed to help out. This is going to be the best shoot yet.”

Richie dinks around with the camera and takes a few practice shots of himself just standing in front of the backdrop and using the props Bev has saved on the side. She brought along a short, red stool for Eddie to sit on, a battery-powered neon rainbow sign, and for whatever fucking reason, a plastic flamingo. 

He hears Bev tell Eddie: “Okay, I’m done until you get changed, so have at it.” And while Eddie is changing behind one of those cool screens that Bev borrowed from the textiles room, Richie turns to her and holds the flamingo up. 

“What the hell are you going to do with this thing, sweetness?” 

She giggles, coming to stand in front of the camera with him. “I don’t really know yet. It just spoke to me. I think it’s because Eddie’s like a bird.” 

“Oh?” 

“Graceful and very, very scary.” 

Eddie calls: “I heard that!” 

Richie grabs the neon rainbow and then goes to the camera, where he’s still got it on the timed photo setting on. 

“Let’s take some pictures while Cinderella is getting ready for the ball,” he suggests. “I want to get a feel for modeling before the spotlight is completely taken over.” 

“You want to try squeezing into this thing?” Eddie asks, still from behind the screen. Richie doesn’t know what he’s even talking about, but the implication of Eddie squeezing into anything makes him feel faint. “Getting into a turtleneck without smearing makeup all over it should be an Olympic goddamn sport.” 

Bev scoffs. “Just shut up and change, Gretchen Weiners. Let us know when you’re done.” 

The two of them take a series of dorky photos together while Eddie is getting into his outfit. There’s one of Richie standing behind Bev and holding the neon rainbow over her head, so that it makes her curls look like they’re gleaming rubies; they take another where Bev is on Richie’s back and holding the rainbow over  _ his _ head, like a proud, queer crown; Richie’s favorite is the one where they’re standing with the plastic flamingo between them, both pressing a kiss to either side of its head. 

Richie is too busy giggling over it and begging her, “Please, put this on a poster, I don’t care if I personally have to pay the printmaking shop to do it, I need it  _ now.” _ to notice that Eddie has finally gotten into everything. He hears the low rasping sound of the screen being pushed aside, and then hears Eddie’s unmuffled voice say: 

“I can’t believe you guys put your mouth on that thing. That’s definitely been in Caldwell since the dawn of fucking time.” 

Richie turns to say something about putting his mouth on all sorts of things, and then the world comes to a record-scratching halt. 

Just about everything that Eddie does, says, and wears is absolutely fucking adorable, and brings Richie to his knees in a very innocuous way. He’s used to thinking that Eddie is unbearably cute, is used to his heart clenching in his chest whenever he sees Eddie wearing his clothes or scrunching up his nose while doing Calc in their room. He thinks about how in love he is with Eddie nearly every waking moment of his day, and he thinks he should be used to it by now. 

Nothing could have possibly prepared him for this moment. Weeks and months of pining and longing have not numbed him to the shock of how utterly precious Eddie looks at all times. 

Even if Bev hadn’t told him ahead of time what the theme for the photoshoot was going to be, Richie would have known right away upon seeing Eddie’s clothes. He’s wearing a very, very bright rainbow turtleneck sweater, each band of color thick and bold and glorious; over that, he’s wearing a pair of denim overall shorts with a daisy patch sewed onto the center pocket; and on his feet, he’s wearing his regular black Keds and a pair of white socks with little rainbows all over them. For his makeup, Bev did her best to bring out Eddie’s freckles while also slathering them with as much highlighter as she could without making it look cakey; his eyeshadow is a vibrant, bubblegum pink with equally vibrant, bubblegum pink glitter swiped onto the center of his eyelids. 

He isn’t wearing the lipgloss yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Richie doesn’t know if he’ll last long enough to see it, because he already feels like he’s coming apart at the seams. 

Richie’s tongue glues itself to the roof of his mouth the second he lays eyes on Eddie, so Bev takes the initiative to say: 

“Oh my God, Eddie! You look so fucking cute!”

“I don’t,” he protests weakly, but when he puts his hands on his hips, it only accentuates how  _ undeniably _ cute his outfit is. “And I think I’ve ingested about a pound of glitter over the past twenty minutes. This is cruel and unusual punishment.” 

Bev takes him over to the makeup station again, and tells him: “Well, get ready for some more.” 

Richie has essentially become a husk of a human being at this point, and he watches in silence as Bev finally holds up the promised tube of lip gloss. Eddie grouches: “Lipgloss is so fucking pointless and sticky. Why do people who wear makeup like this shit so much?” but stays still while she applies it to his lips. 

“It’s sexy,” Bev replies, and after a few coats, sets it down on the table. “And now you are, too. Just one more thing before we get started.” 

She reaches across the table to her makeup bag and rifles around inside of it; after making an “Aha!” noise, she produces a glittery pair of salmon heart-shaped sunglasses and slides them onto Eddie’s face. 

“Voila, darling! The look is complete!” 

Eddie turns to Richie, hands still on his hips. Richie can see his dramatic eyeshadow over the top of the sunglasses, and can also now fully see Eddie’s pursed, glossy lips, and the direct result on his heart is…  _ perilous.  _

“Do I look like an idiot?” 

Richie tries to think of an intelligent reply, but it’s just not happening. His mind is focused solely on Eddie’s pretty, pink mouth and his pretty, pink sunglasses, and there’s not a single bit of room left for coherence. 

“No,” Richie breathes. “You look adorable.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes, but Richie’s pretty sure he’s not imagining the soft flush that rises on his cheeks, underneath all of that goddamn highlighter. “That’s not any better than ‘cute.’”

“But it’s the truth!” 

He looks like he’s going to put up more of a fight, but then Eddie’s shoulders sag, and he lets his hands slide off of his hips and back to his sides. He looks to Bev and asks, “Where do you want me?” 

She pulls him onto the set by his overall straps, looking incredibly pleased with herself. If Richie could feel anything besides starstruck, he might be similarly pleased by how unlike himself Bev has managed to talk Eddie into dressing up. As it is, he just stands behind the camera and watches Beverly situate Eddie where she needs him and says nothing. 

“We’re going to take some practice shots first, like always,” she explains, smoothing out the shoulders of the turtleneck. “I just want to make sure the current settings work with this sweater and don’t wash you out.” 

“Speaking of wash, I cannot wait to never put glitter near my face ever again.” 

“Can it, Scrooge,” Bev says, smiling widely. “You’re going to stand here with all this glitter all over your face, and you’re going to like it. And then you’re going to think about it over and over again until the next time I get you into a look that requires copious amounts of glitter and pretend to be mad about it then, too.” 

“You didn’t need to call me out like that. We have company.” 

“Oh, it’s okay--Richie likes the glitter, too.” 

Richie pretends to be doing his job so that Eddie can’t see the way his eyes widen, the way his face betrays his “Yes I fucking do!” without a single word leaving his mouth. He tinkers with one of the studio lights and acts desperately like Eddie in glitter isn’t going to haunt his dreams for the next twenty years. 

When Bev turns away from Eddie at last, she beckons Richie over to the camera, which he has not looked into since Eddie stood in front of it for personal reasons. He still doesn’t look too closely, using the few seconds between Bev taking the picture and analyzing it to try and get a grip on himself. 

“All righty,” she trills, unaware of (or purposely ignoring) Richie’s crazed state. “Let’s see if we’re good to go. Eddie, look at the camera, you gorgeous piece of ass.” 

Eddie frowns at her through the lens. “Am I famous enough to file a defamation lawsuit?”

“No, now hold still.” 

Eddie does as he’s told, and lets Bev take her first picture of his obnoxiously and righteously queer outfit. He even holds up two sets of finger guns at the last second, which sends another jolt of dopamine directly to Richie’s brain. 

Bev leans away from the viewfinder and brings up the photo she just took. “I think it looks pretty good. What do you think?” 

Richie takes a deep, steadying breath, and bends closer to the camera’s screen to take the requested once-over. Bev’s camera settings are immaculate as per usual, and the way it captures the flush on Eddie’s skin and the way the pink backdrop accentuates his dark curls makes Richie’s deep breath wheeze right back out of his lungs. The photo doesn’t even show off Eddie’s highlight or the shiny, glassy look of his mouth, which are going to add an entirely new element to the concept once Bev properly poses him.

This is going to be a long fucking photoshoot. 

He scrapes enough of his thoughts together to tell Bev: “I think we should lower the exposure just a little bit because of the red, but other than that, it looks perfect as always, Mizz Marsh.” 

Bev’s shoulders relax a little, like whatever tension she was still carrying has been placated. “Excellent, thank you. Eddie, I’m going to adjust the settings, and then I want to take one without your sunglasses on to make sure the makeup looks good, too.” 

“Got it,” Eddie replies. 

He reaches up to push his sunglasses to the top of his head and waits patiently for Bev to make the necessary changes on her camera. After she clicks through them, she directs him to look right at the camera and tilt his head up so that the lights catch on the highlighter and his lip gloss. Even without the aid of the camera, Richie can see how beautiful the glitter looks on Eddie’s skin, and fears for his own sanity when Bev inevitably asks him to take another look. 

“Gorgeous, darling,” she says, and snaps a second photo. “Yeah, that does look a little better. Thoughts?” 

Richie looks at the camera again, and sees that lowering the exposure definitely made Eddie look even more like an angel from above. Everything about Eddie is soft and pink and shiny and painfully gorgeous, and Richie can already see the way that Eddie is settling into himself, is filling out all of those self-conscious edges. 

“Stunning,” is all he can think to say. “I’ll keep an eye out as you start changing poses and adding in props, but I think you’re good to go.” 

“Sweet.” Bev steps away from the camera and goes over to the makeup table, producing a speaker from her bag. “I’m going to put on music to set the mood. Which queer icon should we start with? Freddie or Janelle?” 

“Freddie!” Richie yells. “It rhymes. No better way to start.” 

“I never thought I’d be saying this, but I agree with Richie.” 

“Eds, you’re too sweet on me.” 

“Shut up, dickhead.” 

Bev saunters back to Richie just as the opening line of ‘Another One Bites the Dust’ starts playing. “Boys, no fighting on set. Eddie, you’re definitely not famous enough to file a defamation lawsuit, let alone start acting like a diva. Richie’s here to help.” 

“Richie’s here to make my life miserable.” Eddie protests, and Richie sticks his tongue out at him behind Bev’s back. “But I guess I’ll behave just for you.” 

“That’s what I like to hear! Let’s get this shit started then.” 

Bev starts the photoshoot off easy enough; to get Eddie used to the feel of the shoot and his outfit, she keeps the camera on the tripod and has him take some full body shots, ones that focus more on the clothes and not his face. Eddie, despite all of his grumbling and self-deprecating remarks, gets into the modeling really quickly, even with Richie’s added presence. Richie suspects that it’s because Eddie is keeping his face relaxed right now, and since he’s the king of austere facial expressions, it’s just another moment of his day. He’s not trying to put on a show right now--he’s just looking into the camera and showing off Bev’s outfit, and Richie is a background presence as per usual. 

“You are  _ rocking _ that sweater, Eddie, fuck me,” Bev whistles, after directing him to stand akimbo like he was when he first came out from behind the changing screen. “And with that blush and the highlighter! I’m so jealous of you.” 

This earns Bev her first on-camera smile. “You’re the one who did this to me. I’m sure you’d have no problem finding an opportunity to get into it.” 

“Yeah, but I don’t have your gorgeous eyes or those dashing Prince Charming curls. You look soft and vibrant at the same time. It’s wicked cool.” 

Eddie looks pleased by this statement. “You’re wicked cool.” 

Bev blows him a kiss and then turns to her camera, pulling up the photos she just took. She motions for Richie to come look again, and he does, stomach fluttering at each new shot of Eddie that she reveals. 

“They still lookin’ good?” 

“I don’t think you need me to tell you that, Bev,” Richie says, but at her pointed glance, continues with: “Yeah, they’re sexy. Michael Kors is quaking in his boots right now.” 

“Good,” Bev replies, detaching the camera from the tripod. “All right, I think I got enough body shots for now. Let’s do some close-ups.” 

This is when Eddie starts to get a little nervous, if his furtive glances at Richie are anything to go by. Richie knows what close-ups mean: Eddie making various facial expressions, posing his body this way and that, and overall, trying to fit into a specific character for the shoot. Richie is unapologetic in almost everything he does, but even he would feel nervous about posing for a photoshoot in front of someone for the first time. He can only imagine the anxiety Eddie must be feeling, wondering if Richie is going to make fun of him for getting into it. Especially since Eddie seems to enjoy it so much. 

It makes his heart pang with a disgusting amount of love and affection for Eddie, and makes him say: 

“You do your thing, Eddie Spaghetti. You won’t even know I’m here. I’m just Bev’s invisible minion, waiting for my next task.” 

Eddie snorts, but relaxes, and lets Bev get up close and personal with her camera. 

“Now, you know how much I love your serious faces,” she starts, gently touching Eddie’s chin. “But these are supposed to be fun. Kinda like the Cameron Frye ones, but a little more outgoing and bold. We want some ‘Born This Way’ feels up in this motherfucker, Eddie K.” 

He grins at her. “So you  _ do  _ want me to be a diva?” 

“Yes, I want you to be a diva. But more of a cute diva, like Magnus Bane--not like that blonde twat from  _ Camp Rock.” _

“Noted.” 

While Bev is directing Eddie into his starting pose, Richie thinks to ask: “So, is that the name of this look?” 

Bev giggles. “What? ‘That Blonde Twat From  _ Camp Rock _ ’?”

“No, dummy. ‘Born This Way’.” 

“Oh! I thought about it, but I didn’t really want to do another song title for the name. I decided to go with ‘Chameleon’ since all of us gays try to fit in the best we can but we can’t help but be colorful and unique. You can only disguise what’s underneath for so long before you have to let it shine through.” 

Richie feels incredibly touched by this statement. “That’s really cute, what the fuck. Why am I about to cry on a Wednesday afternoon?” 

Bev peers at him over her shoulder, and then winks. “I get all my inspiration on cute shit from you, babe.” 

Miraculously, Eddie seems to take Richie’s advice on ignoring him to heart and he poses with little to no hesitation. He changes poses when Bev asks him to, and works on relaxing and opening his facial expressions to appear calm, confident, and ultimately fearless. Richie intended on making a few light jokes here and there to make Eddie smile or laugh, but he gets lost in watching Eddie grow into his modeling persona instead. It’s clear from the photos and everything that Bev has said about their sessions that Eddie is a natural at modeling, that he has a genuine chemistry with the camera, but it’s nothing like seeing it happen in person. Maybe it’s that modeling is so far outside of Eddie’s personality, or maybe it’s that this photoshoot is about the pride that comes with being queer, but Richie can see how radiant he is even behind all of the lights and away from the action. It honestly leaves him a little breathless, watching Eddie come to life underneath the glare of the studio lights and Bev’s camera lens. 

Richie watches as she takes picture after picture of Eddie in various poses and stances, muttering encouraging words over the clicking of her camera. Each word she says to him makes his smile widen, and each gay song that she sings along to while photographing him makes his body language grow more and more confident. 

It’s either ten minutes or ten years when she eventually pulls away from Eddie and starts flipping through the photos, letting out a deep breath. 

“Damn, these are looking so fucking good, dude. I love these.” 

“Yeah?” Eddie asks, leaning in to take a look, too. “I’m liking this shoot a lot.” 

“You’re killing it,” Bev tells him. “And I think we got enough for Photo I, so now we can up the ante for Visual Thinking.” 

Richie must not have heard her right. “What do you mean by ‘up the ante’? The man already looks like a Pride parade at its finest, Bev.” 

She gives him a look that could be delighted, but is most definitely devious. “I know. But there are some fun extras I wanted to add onto the look for Visual Thinking that Professor Slate will love that Professor Lowe probably wouldn’t.” 

Richie throws a disbelieving look at Eddie, who also looks a little confused. “What else could she put on you, Eds? A pot of gold?” 

“Patience is a virtue. If you exercised it, you’d be able to see what I’m talking about in just a few minutes.” 

“The only exercise I do is jumping to conclusions.” 

“I know.” Bev reaches up to adjust Eddie’s sunglasses, smiling at him fondly. “How about we take a snack break, and then I’ll put the final touches on it?” 

“Sure,” he says easily. 

They head over to the makeup table together so that Bev can set her camera down and dig them out some snacks. She pulls three water bottles out of her backpack, and wiggles one in Richie’s direction.

“Want some?” 

Richie nods, sauntering over to the table. “Thanks, yo. I’m in need of some hydration after being exposed to the sun for so long.” 

“Shut up,” Eddie mumbles around the lip of his bottle. “You’re a menace.” 

“I’m just being honest, cutie.” Richie takes the offered water bottle, and then takes the bag of pretzels that Bev hands him, too. “You are a sight for sore eyes.” 

“Staring into the sun makes you go blind, dumbass.” 

“Yeah, and what a good image to go out with.” 

They snack for a little bit, and when Bev is done with her pretzels, she starts to pull out whatever she’s adding to Eddie’s outfit out of her makeup bag. Richie watches curiously, mostly so that he won’t get caught staring at Eddie’s sparkly cheekbones or the way the pink of his eyeshadow makes his eyes look even more round and innocent than they already do. 

“It’s nothing crazy,” Bev tells them when she finds what she’s looking for. “Just makes the photos a little fun instead of just satisfactory of project requirements.” 

She presents two items: in her left hand is a chunky, red, heart-shaped sucker, and in her right is a small bag filled with white, plastic butterflies. 

“Hey, those are kind of cute,” Eddie says, smiling. 

“I think so too. They’ll add an eccentric spark to the look that I had to skip out on for the first round of photos since Professor Lowe is a coward.” 

While Eddie is still snacking, Bev proceeds to carefully attach the butterflies to him. They’re just as glittery as the rest of the ensemble, and come with little pins on the underbellies, so Bev is easily able to clip them on wherever she wants. She puts most of them on Eddie’s sweater and the straps of his overalls, but does decide to stick two into his hair, which somehow makes his curls look even more perfect and angelic than they already are. 

Bev lets him take a look in the handheld mirror she uses for his makeup. “What do you think? Too much?” 

“No, I think they’re cute. Rich?” 

Richie’s lucky that he can still speak at all, considering the afternoon he’s had. “I agree. Great addition to the metamorphosis analogy we’ve got going on.” 

“Exactly! Eddie, when you’re done eating, I’m going to put some more lip gloss on you, and then we can start the second half of the shoot.” 

“Just let me finish my water really quick and I’ll be done.” 

She does, and then she’s applying another generous coat of lip gloss to Eddie’s mouth. Richie stops mid-chew and stares at them, wondering if this is what Moses felt like when he stumbled upon that burning bush claiming to be God. Completely entranced and also possibly in grave danger. 

Bev takes a long look at Eddie, now covered in butterflies and fresh lip gloss. “You’re so fucking cute. I know I keep saying it, but you are just so _ fucking  _ cute!” 

Eddie beams at her, says: “I know,” in a very sure tone of voice, and Richie thinks that his knees might give out if he has to remain in such close proximity to an unflinching Eddie Kaspbrak. 

She hands him the sucker. “Save this until we start taking pictures again. I’m going to swap out my camera battery, and then we can get back at it, okay?” 

“Okay.” 

Bev flounces off to where she’s charging the other camera battery, singing along to ‘Your Song’ by Elton John as she goes. Richie finally manages to swallow his mouthful of pretzels and takes a long drink of water, not knowing if he’ll be able to look at Eddie with butterflies clipped into his hair for more than a second without passing out. This doubt only worsens when Eddie decides to sidle up next to Richie, adjusting some of the butterflies clipped to his overalls. 

“If you asked me a few weeks ago if I would ever let Beverly Marsh cover me in glitter and plastic butterflies, I probably would’ve had a meltdown.” 

“I’m having a meltdown right now,” Richie doesn’t mean to say, but Eddie seems unconcerned by the confession. 

“Same,” he replies, lightly touching the butterflies in his hair. “But in a good way.” 

Richie makes a soft keening noise. “I’m deciding.” 

Eddie’s too distracted by fixing the butterflies to really notice the strain in his voice, which is really for the best. Eventually, he huffs and looks up at Richie in clear frustration. 

“Will you fix the ones in my hair? I feel like they’re falling out, but I don’t want them to look dumb.” 

Christ alive, he’s too fucking gay for this.  _ “I _ feel like Bev would be more equipped to handle this.” 

“Please, Chee?” 

Well, piss. Eddie knows what happens when he pulls the ‘Chee’ card: anything his fucking heart desires. 

Richie sends out a useless prayer and does as requested, setting his food on the makeup table. Eddie, used to the routine, stands perfectly still while he re-clips the butterflies more firmly into his curls. Richie’s close enough that he can see that the glittery part of Eddie’s eyeshadow is holographic, on top of being bright ass pink, and that Bev dusted blush over the tip of his nose, as well as his cheeks, so that he looks rosy across the whole plane of his face. He’s so beautiful that Richie really could burst into tears right this instant. 

“There,” is what he says when he’s done, instead of  _ You take my fucking breath away, Eds.  _ “All good to go.”

“Thanks, Richie.” Eddie replies, rocking on his feet a little. “You’re the best.” 

Richie catches a waft of strawberry when Eddie bobs closer, looking placated and positively cheery. It takes his brain a second to work out where it’s coming from, through the haze of Eddie’s close proximity and his adorable smile. When he realizes that it’s his fucking lip gloss that smells like strawberries, that that’s what Richie would taste if he dared to lean down and smear a kiss across Eddie’s slick, pink mouth, he feels a searing heat in his gut. 

“No problem,” Richie tells him, voice a little strangled. Eddie notices, if his eyebrows creasing is anything to go by, so Richie frantically slaps on a Voice. “Let’s go get back on that horse there, partner.” 

The suspicion is immediately replaced with reluctant amusement. “Yeehaw.” 

Bev has the stool set up for Eddie when they make their way over to her. She waves a hand at it like it’s a brand new car, and says: 

“Please take a seat, Your Majesty.” 

Eddie does as he’s told, carefully lowering himself down onto the stool. He keeps one knee bent to his chest and stretches the other one out. 

“Like this?” 

“Yeah, hold it right there.” Bev takes a quick photo and examines it, half-turning to Richie as she does. “The butterflies add more white into the shot than before. Does it still look good to you or do you think we should adjust the exposure again?” 

He looks at the photo, and his eyes get stuck on the gleam of Eddie’s lips, thinking again of the decadent, cloying scent of strawberry. Bev has to say his name before Richie remembers that he’s supposed to be assisting her. 

“I think it looks great. There’s still way more rainbow than white in there, so I don’t think another adjustment is necessary.” 

“Rad. Okie dokie, Eddie--let’s make some magic.” Bev points at the sucker in his hand. “Pop that bad boy into your mouth.” 

Bev proceeds to take a handful of photos of Eddie sitting on the red stool as he is, legs open and posture relaxed. Richie has to take a few steps back, unable to stand being so close to Eddie’s glossy mouth wrapped around a piece of blood-red candy. He’s coming to terms with the fact that they’re going to be some of the cutest photos of the bunch, and the knowledge of it pains him, that Eddie is so sweet and so hot at the same and fucking knows it. 

He doesn’t get to hide for long, unfortunately. After plenty of photos of Eddie with the sucker in and out of his mouth, and plenty of Richie sweating through his shirt, Bev turns and crooks her index finger at him.

“It’s your time to shine, dearest.” 

Richie’s eyebrows raise almost to his hairline. “Pardone the fuck?” 

She raises hers back. “Did you forget about the other part of your duties? I brought you here to make Eddie laugh, remember?” 

“I said I can laugh on my own!” Eddie protests, but he doesn’t sound so convinced either. 

“Sunshine, I love you,” Bev says, patting Eddie’s bent knee. “But you have resting bitch face for a reason. And you can’t laugh at your own jokes the way Richie can, so--overruled.” 

“Hey, I’m a treasure trove of great puns and one-liners. You  _ wish _ you had access to my thoughts.” 

“I really do not. Get to it.” 

Richie really doesn’t know where to start, if he’s being honest. His head is still scrambled from Eddie’s lip gloss and, stupidly, the fucking plastic butterflies clipped into his curls; there’s not a lot of leftover room for his talent at making Eddie come undone. But never let it be said that Richie Tozier would ever give up the chance to make Eddie laugh until he cries, like he did with--

Richie comes a little closer, like he was when Eddie first sat down on the stool. “If you laugh now, I won’t have to break out You Know What.” 

Eddie, against his will, is already smiling at him. “‘You Know What’?”

“You know what, You Know What.” 

Eddie’s smile deepens, but he looks lost. “I think you should just hit me with your best shot and see if I laugh. That way I can prove both of you fuckers wrong.” 

Bev tsks. “If you laugh out of evilness, it’s not going to work. I need you to laugh like you’re on top of the world and ruling it at the same time.” 

Eddie makes an unconvinced face. “Well, like I said: hit me with your best shot.” 

“‘Fire away!’” Richie sings dutifully, and then crouches next to Bev so that he can make intense eye contact with Eddie. “Eds, I didn’t want it to come down to this, but you’ve left me with no choice.” 

“Don’t call me Eds.” 

“Edward Spaghedward,” Richie says instead, steepling his fingers together in a quasi-prayer hands gesture. “I’m really sorry that it had to end this way.” 

“Richie--” 

Richie takes a deep breath and closes his eyes to get in character. Bev is obviously stifling giggles next to him, and he hears it just as she also brings her camera up again to capture whatever is going to happen next. He focuses on channelling the energy of his character, on using the correct voice inflictions, and then he opens his eyes again, staring right at Eddie with a deadly serious expression. 

“Hold on, hold on!” Richie suddenly shouts. “Hold on! Her sister was a witch, right? And what was  _ her _ sister?” 

The effect is instantaneous: Bev barks out a short, elated laugh, and Eddie starts to lose his shit, the hand not holding the sucker moving to cover his mouth. 

“No, no!” Bev screeches, yanking it away. “That’s the goldmine right there, Kaspbrak, don’t you dare hide it!” She takes a few rapid shots, ones where Eddie is still grinning widely and laughing. “Richie, keep going!” 

Richie feels power well up in him like a tidal wave, and it pushes him to yell: “The Wicked Witch of the  _ East, _ bro!” 

“God!” Eddie yells back, laughing deeply. The sound of it makes Richie’s heart squeeze. 

“You’re gonna look at me and tell me that I’m wrong?” he continues, gesticulating wildly. “Am I  _ wrong?  _ She wore a crown and came down in a bubble, Doug!” 

At this point, Eddie is wheezing a little, sucker-holding hand resting on top of his knee and the empty one pressed to his sternum. His sunglasses are starting to slide down his nose and reveal the crinkles around his sparkly, fuchsia eyes. He’s so fucking cute that Richie aches with it, aches to press his lips to Eddie’s throat and feel the belly laughs coming from it. 

Instead, he points both hands at Eddie and tells him: “Grow up, bro! Grow up!” 

Richie almost forgets that Bev is taking pictures of this whole scene until Eddie, who is laughing so hard that it’s silent, tilts his head back and has to clench his hand into his overalls to ground himself. Bev swears under her breath and presses in closer, taking shot after shot after shot of Eddie going off the deep end and hoarsely repeating the video quotes to himself when he can manage it. 

When Eddie’s done laughing and taking a series of deep, ragged breaths, Bev goes through the photos she managed to take while he was otherwise occupied. She keeps cursing, and looks a little misty-eyed by what she finds in her SD card. 

“Eddie, these are fucking beautiful,” she finally says. “I think I just ascended to another plane of existence.” 

“Me too,” he agrees, eyes gleaming. “Oh, man. I don’t know why the fuck that gets me every time without fucking fail.” 

“You’re a man of simple pleasures, such as myself,” Richie tells him. “Nothing says simple pleasure like two grown ass men screaming at each other about  _ The Wizard of Oz.”  _

“Sounds like us.” Eddie grins at Richie with his tongue between his teeth, and Bev gasps like she just came up from underwater. 

“Hold it right fucking there!” 

Richie lets her take a few shots before he feels inclined to yell once more: “Hold on, hold on!” which results in them all losing their shit again. 

Bev decides, after they’ve all calmed down, that she has enough shots with the stool. 

“Let’s get that neon rainbow in here, gays!” 

Richie fetches it for her, turning it on as he goes. This is really the only part of the whole shoot that he may have to work with Bev on to look decent, because of the clashing of different modes of color going on. 

She says as much when he gives it to Eddie, who has abandoned his sucker on the makeup table so that both hands are free. “We’re definitely taking a few practice shots with that. Hold it in front of you like you’d normally hold something, then up to your face, and then above your head, okay?” 

“Roger roger.” Eddie replies, and Richie can’t quite hide the dorky smile that takes over at the dorky words. 

Bev takes a few photos for each pose, getting whole body shots and close-ups as well, just to make sure that she has all the options covered. Richie’s at her side in an instant when she’s done with the trial photos, chin resting gently on her shoulder. 

“Adjust just a little bit?” she asks him, scrolling through them. 

Richie nods. “Ye-up. Just a little bit. They look pretty stable for the most part.” 

“You’re the best.” 

“I know you are, but what am I?”

She takes a few of Eddie relaxed in each pose: held in front of him, close to his face, and above his head. There’s still a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouths, but these pictures are more about encompassing Eddie’s outfit with the light than about his expression. Bev stops to make sure the neon lights are still working with the studio lights and his sweater every minute or so, and has Richie look over them, too. He spends approximately two seconds looking at them critically for any lighting issues and twenty seconds studying Eddie’s flawless skin and the way the neon brings out the holographic flecks in his eyeshadow. 

After a series of the calm photos, Bev makes a magic wand gesture with her index finger at Richie, which he deciphers easily enough:  _ You’re up again.  _

“Let’s get it going, John Mulaney.” 

“I’ll take that as the huge compliment it is,” Richie says, and studies Eddie. “Hmmm. I don’t think a rerun of that video is the right call this time around.” 

Eddie laughs, and then immediately looks angry about it. “Fucking shit. Stop using that against me!” 

“Okay, okay.” Richie holds his hands up. “I won’t bring it up again today. Let me think of something else.” 

Eddie watches skeptically as Richie paces in front of him, finger tapping on his chin and eyes squinted in thought. As he’s wondering just what method of humor calls for Eddie handling a neon rainbow, the song on Bev’s speaker changes to ‘My My My’ by Troye Sivan, and Richie’s own neon rainbow goes off in his brain. 

“But of course!” 

He goes to Bev’s phone and unlocks it, saying a quick sorry to Troye Sivan for turning his song off as he types in the name of a different one. 

“Hey,” Eddie protests, mildly offended. “I love that song.” 

“We can come back to it once we get done with this one.” 

Just as Richie says  _ this one, _ he taps on the new song. It takes a moment, but then ‘Let’s Hear It for the Boy’ by Deniece Williams starts playing into the studio, and he cranks it up. 

“It’s not gay, but it might as well be!” he shouts, and goes back to the set, hips shimmying and arms wiggling in the air. 

Eddie’s trying his best to not laugh, but it’s pretty much a lost cause; Richie knows how dumb he looks when he dances, and that it only intensifies whenever bops from the 80s come on. He’s not holding back by any means, gyrating obscenely and singing as loudly as possible. 

“C’mon, Eds!” he says, and starts to do some of the dance sequence from  _ Footloose.  _ “God wouldn’t have given you maracas if he didn’t want you to shake ‘em!” 

“That’s from a completely different movie!” Eddie complains, but then starts to dance as requested, giving up any pretenses of putting up a fight. 

Bev is moving around them, camera snapping photos as quickly as she can get it to. At this point, Eddie is similarly shimmying his hips and moving the rainbow sign in time with his steps, laughing freely. Richie looks fucking ridiculous when he dances, joking or no--his limbs are too long, and he lacks any necessary coordination to be considered graceful. But Eddie is the definition of the word graceful, all compact muscle and perfectly controlled movements. He’s the limber and spry Ren in this situation, to Richie’s enthusiastic but sloppy Willard. 

About halfway through the song, Eddie puts the rainbow behind his head again, so that it’s resting on his shoulders, and starts to do the  _ Footloose  _ dance with Richie. Bev goes crazy for it, hollering: “You beautiful sons of bitches. I could kiss both of you right now for this fucking content you’re giving me. And I’m not talking about the photos!” 

Eddie lets out a joyous whoop, looking so fucking carefree and alive that Richie has to physically restrain himself from sweeping Eddie into his arms. Eddie, with a grin big enough that it splits his face in two, starts to sing just as loudly as Richie is. 

“‘Maybe he’s no Romeo, but he’s my lovin’ one-man show, oh, woah, let’s hear it for the boy!’” 

In the end, Richie doesn’t have to worry about holding himself back because Eddie is the one who initiates the dance. He lets Bev take countless photos of him beaming and dancing around with reckless abandon, and then he asks her: 

“Can I set this down for a second?” 

“Go ahead,” she says, also dancing. “I got what I need.” 

He doesn’t spare a glance for the rainbow when he sets it on the ground. Richie is still going strong, but he almost trips when Eddie dances up to him, singing away and moving his whole body fluidly. 

“It’s unfair that you picked this song,” Eddie whines during a break between lyrics. “Low blow, Richard.” 

“That’s my name,” Richie laughs, winking at him.

When Eddie reaches out to link their hands together, Richie’s stomach somersaults like a fucking ferris wheel rolling towards the ocean, but he’s helpless to do anything but let Eddie pull him in. They do the  _ Footloose _ dance for the rest of the song, singing and moving together in nearly-perfect synchronization. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Bev taking pictures of them, looking positively tickled by this turn of events, but Richie can’t find it within himself to be embarrassed when this is definitely in the top five best things that’s ever happened to him. Maybe top three since he picked the song. 

When the song comes to a close, Eddie lets out a deep sigh; he’s practically glowing from how jubilant dancing to ‘Let’s Hear It for the Boy’ made him, and it’s hard to look at him head-on, with all of that sunlight spilling from his eyes and from behind his teeth. But Richie couldn’t look away if he fucking wanted to. 

“I love that song,” he says unnecessarily, and Richie snorts. “It’s so good every time.” 

“I agree. Mission accomplished.” 

Eddie flips Richie off, but doesn’t try to deny it. “Yeah, yeah. You’re fun and hip, we get it.” 

“I don’t know about hip--it looks like you’re the one with all the hips here, man.” 

He expects Eddie to protest, or shove him for teasing him about his dancing, but instead (he really shouldn’t be surprised, Eddie comes out of his shell more and more every day) he’s met with: 

“You bet your sweet ass I’m the one with the hips.” 

Richie, gobsmacked, can only turn to Bev and jerk a thumb in Eddie’s direction. “God, do you hear him? He’s fucking ballsy now. Good job, Marsh.” 

“Hey, none of that. Eddie did it all by himself. I just put him in a spot where he’d had to swim or drown, and he chose to swim.” 

Eddie’s bravado fades a little, a quiet happiness taking its place. “You think so?” 

Richie can’t have that. He carefully adjusts one of Eddie’s butterflies, and then carefully tucks a wayward curl behind his ear, feeling some sort of bravery himself. “We know so, Eds. You’re your own garden. All you needed was a little water and some sunlight.” 

Eddie looks at him with the moon and stars in his eyes, apparently unable to say anything for a long beat. If there’s anything that Richie can’t stand more than Eddie talking down on himself, it’s Eddie looking at Richie like he put those moon and stars into the sky, and he takes his hand away from Eddie’s hair that he won’t see that it’s trembling. 

“Is it time for Phase 3?” he asks Bev, turning to go and grab the plastic flamingo. 

“Yeah, I’m changing the settings back to what we used for the stool.”

Richie also scoops the rainbow up on his way, shutting it off with a small click. His face feels uncomfortably warm from whatever just transpired between himself and Eddie, and every single inch of his thrashing, unsteady heart is begging for that adoring look in Eddie’s eyes to be more than platonic affection. But Richie’s not dumb enough to get his hopes up, or think that Eddie would ever want to waste all of that color and starlight on someone as lackluster as him, so he swallows down the longing and the disappointment and picks up the flamingo. He pretends to examine it for a few seconds to get the bittersweet look off of his face and pastes a smile over it before going back to the other two. 

“These ones are going to be excellent.” Richie announces, handing the flamingo to Eddie. “A true test of your talents, cutie. Many can rock the stool and neon lights looks, but very few can rock the fake bird look.” 

“That sounds like a challenge, if I’m not mistaken.” 

God, he’s just so fucking adorable. It’s really unfair how cute he is, and that Richie just has to stand there and watch him be cute without melting at his feet. 

“You’re not. Let’s see what you’re made of, Dr. K.” 

Eddie does, in fact, show Richie just what he’s made of. He meant it when he said that posing with a plastic flamingo is not something that just anyone can pull off or manage to do without looking like a dumbass, but Eddie does it with little effort. Bev has to direct him slightly more than she has thus far, but for the most part, Eddie picks good poses for the flamingo and takes even better photos in those poses. There’s a few he takes where the flamingo is covering one of his eyes, mouth open in delighted surprise. There are a few he takes with the flamingo cradled in one arm and the other pressed to his forehead, like Eddie is absolutely enamored by some unseen man on the beach. Richie’s personal favorites are the ones Bev takes where Eddie is sitting on the ground, legs stretched out in front of him; he’s got his palms flat behind his back and is resting his weight on them, head tilted like he’s suntanning; the flamingo sits next to him, also apparently in a state of relaxation under the sun. 

“This is outrageous,” Richie says, when he can’t hold it in anymore. “No human being should look this good while posing with a scruffy lawn decoration. I want a refund.” 

“Refund?” Eddie asks, sending another one of his loose, blinding grins over to him. “You’re lucky I’m not making you pay to be here. There are people who would have sold a kidney to get into this photoshoot.” 

Richie responds with his own goofy grin, and pokes Eddie’s ankle bone, the only part of him that he can really reach. “I love diva Eds. You’re fucking awesome.” 

Eddie blows him a kiss, which Bev scrambles to get a picture of. He wordlessly turns to face her and does it again, and she makes a noise that sounds kind of like a sob. 

“I agree with Richie,” she says, seemingly on the verge of crying. “You’re fucking awesome, sweetcheeks. I couldn’t ask for a better model.” 

Eddie drops the diva persona to smile lovingly at Bev. “I couldn’t do it without my sun and my water.” 

“Stop it. I’ll come over there and kiss that cute face of yours if you’re not careful.” 

“Do it, coward.” 

“Let me finish these photos and then we’ll be done. I’ll give you a kiss then.” 

Eddie turns to look at Richie. “What about you?” 

“What about me?” 

“Are you going to kiss me too?” 

Richie blinks, completely dumbfounded by this question and its accompanying mental image. “Uhhhh--” 

“Hey, eyes on me,” Bev says, snapping her fingers at Eddie. “Don’t lose focus. You can kiss Richie when we’re done, like I said.” 

Eddie goes back to posing, seemingly over the question as soon as he asks it. Richie just stares at him, completely bowled over by the question and the way Eddie asked it, like he was being serious. Like he really wants Richie to plant one on him. 

_ He’s probably still slap-happy off of the ‘Let’s Hear It for the Boy’ dance session,  _ Richie reasons with himself, just so that the fuzz will clear from his brain.  _ Don’t get your hopes up, idiot.  _

It takes another handful of minutes, and another handful of impossibly great posing with the plastic flamingo, but eventually Bev declares that they’re done. 

“I got so many pictures, it’s going to take me ten years to sort through them all. You can get changed now--I got everything I needed. Thank you for being a trooper as always.” 

“No problem,” Eddie says sincerely, looking like he’d sit through another hour of photos if that’s what Bev wanted. “I had a lot of fun as always.” 

“Me too.” Bev steps up to Eddie and cups his face, planting a loud, adoring kiss on his cheek. “There’s your kiss. You earned it.” 

Eddie preens, practically floating away from Bev and towards the changing screen in the back of the studio. He stops when he passes by Richie, though, looking up at him expectantly. 

“What’s up, cutie?” Richie asks; he’s texting Mike for deets on the dining hall’s dinner choices since they’ll be heading that way soon. 

Eddie waits until he’s paying attention, and raises his eyebrows pointedly. “I’m waiting.” 

“For what?” 

Eddie points at his face. “My kiss, duh.” 

“You were serious about that?” 

“As a heart attack.” 

“Hey, that’s not funny. People die from those.” It’s not Richie’s best, is probably his worst attempt at humor, but his brain is back to being fuzz and loud, uncontrolled screaming. Eddie doesn’t budge, though, so Richie gets it together and bends down to press a loud, adoring kiss to his cheek in the exact same way Bev kissed his other one. “There you go, honey bunny. Are you satisfied?” 

“Absolutely,” Eddie trills, and finally goes to change. 

Richie waits until he’s completely hidden behind the screen to go to Bev, who is looking through the photos and cooing to herself. Richie loves and hates her  _ so much. _

“I have a suspicion that you didn’t really need my help and you just wanted to torture me today.” 

“Whatcha talking about, buddy?” 

“You handled the lighting stuff just fine,” Richie explains, crossing his arms over his chest. “It was easy as shit, broski. You’re an expert at that already, you definitely didn’t need my help with it. So, my theory is that you invited me along to torture me.” 

Bev studies him for a moment, considering her words and the ones that Richie’s said to her. Then she smiles at him, and it’s only kind of evil. 

“You did help me out with the lighting, though. I wanted a second opinion from someone who’s used to working with lighting under different set layouts, and you gave me that needed second opinion, Rich. And I would have never gotten those shots of Eddie laughing and dancing without your help. I wasn’t lying when I said that no one can crack him open like you can. You got the best pictures of my portfolio out of him today.” 

Richie feels rightly touched by these words, but he doesn’t hear the denial of his previous claim. “But did you also invite me along to torture me?” 

“You know, who’s to say?” 

“You’re unbelievable.” Richie curls his arms around her, careful to not crush the camera. “I had a lot of fun today. Thanks for inviting me, even if my lifespan has been significantly shortened after dancing with Eddie in those fucking overall shorts.” 

“Thanks for coming,” she replies, hugging him back. “You’ll thank me again later when I send you all the pictures I took. Including the ones of you two dancing together. You can show them off at your wedding someday, and then ‘Let’s Hear It for the Boy’ can be your first dance.” 

When Eddie comes over to them a few minutes later, back into his regular clothes, Richie is still trying to put the pieces back together after Bev’s comment. 

“Are you okay?” Eddie asks, suspicious but also concerned. 

Richie can’t say that he’s crying thinking about Eddie and him dancing together at their imagined wedding, so he flings a hand out towards the corner where the props are still laying. 

“It’s that flamingo, Eds. It’s just so goddamn beautiful.” 

“Jesus H.” 

While Eddie is mollifying Richie, Bev finishes packing up her camera and joins them, groaning about how hungry she is. 

“I’m going to come back later and finish putting everything away. Right now I need to eat my weight in salami and baked chips.” 

They all grab their backpacks and head out of the studio together. For effect, Richie pauses in the doorway and turns to wave goodbye to the plastic flamingo. 

“Until we meet again, my love!” 

Eddie shoves an elbow into his back. “Keep walking, freak. Now I want a sandwich, and if I don’t get it in the next five minutes, I’m going to cause catastrophic harm to the environment.” 

And with that, the studio is locked up and the three of them are tromping across campus to their usual dining hall, Richie still blubbering over Eddie marrying him in his dreams and trying to pretend like he’s blubbering over a grubby plastic flamingo. On the list of lies he’s had to come up with to hide how tragically in love he is with Eddie, it’s not the worst one, and it certainly won’t be the last. 

**_~.~.~_ **

Richie’s in line for make-your-own ziti at Penne, the dining hall’s designated pasta and pizza station, when the first person finds him after his traumatic, enlightening afternoon. 

“Hey, how did the photoshoot go?” 

He turns to see Ben next to him, looking comfortable in his school sweatshirt and completely unburdened by his crushing, consuming love for another one of the Losers. Richie aspires to be him so badly. 

“It was terrible,” Richie laments, and then he throws himself into Ben’s arms. “I’m going to move across the country.” 

Ben laughs and hugs Richie tightly, just the way he likes it. “So it was the best afternoon of your life, then?” 

“Yes,” he agrees, shoving his face into Ben’s neck like it’ll protect him from all the evils and unrequited crushes in the world. “I don’t know how I’m going to pick up the pieces, Haystack.” 

“I’m sure you’ll find a way. You always do.” 

Ben pats him on the back, and Richie sinks into him fully, uncaring of the other students who probably think it’s strange that two people over 6’0” are embracing in the Penne line. All he has the brain power to care about is Ben’s familiar, comforting cotton smell and the fact that he did the  _ Footloose _ dance with Eddie for an extended period of time. He also recalls the specific shade of pink that his lip gloss was, and how if Richie moved his head just so when he gave Eddie a kiss on the cheek, he could have tasted the strawberry of it and the cherry of the sucker leftover in his mouth. 

“I don’t think I can this time.” 

“Why’s that?” 

“Bev put strawberry scented lip gloss on him. It had glitter in it, Ben! He also made me kiss him on the face and all I could think about was kissing him on his lip glossy mouth.” 

There’s a beat of silence, and then Ben pats him on the back again, this time with a definite edge of sympathy. 

“Okay, that’s pretty bad. But you’re strong and you’ll get through this.” 

Richie fists his hands in Ben’s sweatshirt, leaning their heads together. “I’ll never get through anything again. I’m a weak, gay man with a damning hopeless romantic streak.” 

Ben just sighs, leaning into Richie, too. “Aren’t we all.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in the beginning notes when i was talking about loving this chapter because of a scene in the middle, i was definitely talking about the 'let's hear it for the boy' dancing scene fjsjdjfdsjsjdj footloose is one of my fave movies and got super into writing eddie and richie dancing to it and thinking about the dance ren and willard did with it :")))))))) it fills my dumb gay heart with so much happiness ♡♡♡ i highly recommend and going back and listening to the song while you read bc it will make u cry much like myself while i was writing it 
> 
> thank you all again for reading!!! your kudos, comments, and messages mean the absolute world to me and motivate me to keep doing what i love most!!!! if you take any time out of your day to read my work and leave some good vibes behind on it, i love you dearly!!!!! and special shout-out to the tumblr anon who dropped in to say hello and ask when i was going to update: i hope this chapter didn't let you down!!! always feel free to come chat w me [@bodhirookes](http://bodhirookes.tumblr.com)
> 
> also not to call anyone out and feel free to tell me to delete this but i see that someone by the username of daddyhader bookmarked this and all i have to say is 1) i agree and 2) thank you for your service

**Author's Note:**

> welp there's the first chapter!!! i hope you all enjoyed it and it was interesting enough to entice you to keep reading!!! eddie being hot and bad porn are on the way if that also keeps u interested lmfao!! just a warning: chapter lengths Will Not Be Consistent


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